I learned to love patterns as a young girl,
how to carefully pin them with preciseness and skill,
but patterns were not just the tissue designs that I cut,
they were in the weave of the fabrics, the colors, and most of all, touch.
The elegant patterns made with spinning wheel thread,
purple lace, blue striped twill, fabrics gently caressed,
became singular memories fused in my being,
their sight and their touch evoked tender feelings in me.
I loved the patterns others might find bizarre,
those whose complexity seemed the most trying of all,
that when finished revealed the fine art in their lines,
the essence in the pattern that had been longing for life.
This pattern wove through my life, time after time,
in my dreams and visions, the source of my smile,
daunting plans whose details escaped others’ minds,
to me, were the patterns that made life worthwhile.
My most cherished patterns are not easily seen,
invisibly sewn in the soul that is me,
patterns made with love, a rare and true art,
the intricate lace that patterned my heart.
In every facet of life, patterns are what I see,
tucked in the French-seamed sleeves of my dreams,
woven by the trees whose leaves spin the light from above,
and hand sewn in each life, the infinite patterns of love.