THE RECRUITMENT
The idealistic boy,
Who bore the imprint
of a loving mothers careful tailoring,
Said 'I am here, sir. I'll do my duty. Make me a man.'
THE DRESSMAKERS LAMENT
No.
Not yet.
What was so wrong with him being the boy?
So cries the puzzled garment maker,
The embroiderer of the nestling
The weaver of the sequined dreams
As she hides her misapprehensions
Amid the delicate threadbare fabrics
And tucks the ragged remnants of the fibers
Into the scattered pockets of her fears
She looks at the son she was gifted with now
Standing so tall in his uniform
A uniform that she hadn't lovingly hand stitched
But she’s remembering the childish joys,
The boyhood laughter's
And the pinked complexion of his innocence
And yes, he is a man now
She can let him go
And she is proud of her creation
And she acts brave in front of the neighbors
But alone,
Long into her midnight hours
She lays down the thread and the thimble
Of her sewing
As she interlaces her fearful tears
Into her woven baskets of prayers
And she still grieves for the boy
By Morning Song
© 2012 Morning Song
(All rights reserved)
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