A Reservoir of Words

She continues the work of nimbly
piecing together delicate shapes
from fabric—creating so simply.
The space that the child takes
draped across her lap is normal.
She lives her life being touched,
others drawing comfort from her love,
so informal
that it is unfazed to have a child simply sit,
not rushed
to move onto the next thing,
perhaps a worm squirming
or maybe a flower in bloom.
She is completely safe here with her mother
in this room.
She knows she can linger here,
In the folds of the apron she draws near
to her mother, knowing she is home.