Sunday Poem

And so our mothers and grandmothers have, more often than
anonymously, handed on the creative spark, the seed of the
they themselves never hoped to see. . . . Alice Walker

My Grandmother's Needlework

As I unwind the yarn
to begin another
winter shawl,

I look up
at the frayed
tip of the thread

in the sampler cloth
where my grandmother created
a barefoot girl

holding a bowl
of lemons,
her hair

braided back,
an oval of vines
around her,

tiny leaves
not quite closing
at the bottom

a space of
untatted white perhaps
a gate ajar

where her sadness
or dreams

by Andrea Potos
from Adanna Literary Journal