do you see the silhouette there?
the face in the stone?
you need to know this about me:
i am bad to personify.
equally bad to tell stories . . .

every morning
at dark thirty,
she pulls her soft, wispy white hair,
a gift from her matriarchal lineage,
into a bun at the nape of her neck
to keep it out of her way
while she feeds fabric
under the needle
that dances up and down
in direct proportion
to the cast iron pedal
she pumps up and down with her feet.

the steady whirring
of the old singer machine
fills the air with music
as she creates quilts –
one for each child,
one for each grandchild –
from assorted scraps of fabric
purchased from
her friend across the street,
paid for with one of her
pineapple upside-down cakes.