by Wilda Morris
I check the thimbleberries by the path,
not yet in bloom. Leaves spread open
inviting the sun, itís light hidden again
behind stubbornly persistent clouds.
The name thimbleberry flits through my mind,
a butterfly not ready to land, and I think
of the thimble Grandmother gave me,
how long it has rested, unused,
in my sewing box, as if waiting
for a different kind of spring, a rebirth
of my love for sewing.
Grandmother guided my first stitches
even as she helped guide my steps.
She showed me how to thread a needle
and let its point lead the way, taking small steps
through the fabric, how to knot
the end of the thread so the stitches stay.
All right, Grandmother, I say, not knowing
if she can look down on me today,
before the thimbleberries bloom,
Iíll get out the sewing box and embroider
a blossom or two in memory of you.