Father, I mend your shirt. Its grayed silk soft in my arms.
This view of Kitakyushu with its racing river
looks the same as water standing still.
I am surface, smooth rock against vibrant sky,
slate and azure. I am your needle woman.

A strand of hair at nape of neck becomes my thread.
My body is the needle holding two worlds. I sew together
the field of time where stone and air meet. When mother
hands me clothing to patch my thought is always I am needed,
I am quiet. This I do with the needles voice.

Father, what the needle tells me of your shirt
I see again in cloud, ledge and sky.
The fabric stronger for the patching,
more beautiful well-worn. This shirt holds
the shape of your chest, the olive odors of your skin.
I give it back to you mended, whole.

A look through my needle exposes
hip curved into rock. Another look shows
open horizon. Inside my own heartbeat I study
the needles point. The slender metal stabs fabric,
emerges to fingers underneath. Blindly I guide the needle.
My fingers anxious, willing to be pierced.
Mother hands me another shirt saying, mend first,
and in so doing you will create.

~Patricia L. Johnson