My Mother's Thimble
An old silver thimble, worn thin with work,
On a finger whose duty was never shirked.
It glinted and shone as if happily placed,
Making loved ones' clothes with its merry
fast pace.
It wove a pattern of girlish dreams
As it made a quilt or felled the seams
Of a wedding gown with handwork so fine,
For the stitches formed in a steady line.
A Thimble is sort of an intimate thing,
Almost as beloved as a wedding ring.
Reminding me of forgotten scenes
Of parties, events, and long ago dreams.
By Grace M. Naegeli
Before love blooms it gets a start
From deep within a Mother's heart.
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