AN OLD PIECE OF
LACE
Helene
Smith©2004
It was just an
old piece of lace,
Attached to a
dirty old rag;
A workman had
left behind
Women’s labor,
a cultural lag.
Stained now
with axle grease
“Turpentined”
to clean off a brush.
The man who had
used it,
Threw it out in
a rush.
A forgotten
masterpiece
In whole or
twisted in part,
What caring
hands created,
Once a fine
piece of art.
Perhaps in few
precious moments,
Between caring
for children so,
Some woman with
feeling for design,
Had created it
row after row.
Wishful dreams
and hopes
For children
yet to be,
Or in
resignation, hands caring
For others’
offspring at her knee.
Fancy work, men
used to say,
Years ago with
women working at home,
Putting in
time, a strange quirk,
More like a
legacy and a poem.
A nurturing
soul of her own
Under our one
and only sun,
Time so
valuable to women,
A life of
getting so much done.
Giving rise to
“domestic activity”
In the order of
each day.
“Frivolous,
superfluous, unessential,”
To make the
hours go fast, each day.
But for the
feminine mind
It was much
more than that.
Gentle men fail
not to notice,
She wore many a
fancy hat.
Now only an old
memory
Of time and
space,
Someone’s
so-called handy work,
Manifold in
lace.
Within a
dominant masculine world
Among all
things that bind,
Lies a feminine
mystique,
Needle-work of
every kind.
All dreams and
wishes, with
Hands holding
threads so tight,
Crocheting
stories as toddlers listen,
Mystic motion,
a splendid sight.
Unaware of
ancient intrigue, young minds
Knew not the
past and what was said.
Their marvel
was in networks,
Fingers weaving
a spider’s web.
Interlacing
complex threads
In enigmatic
confusion, to children
Beauty and
wonder of life,
Wound together
in one illusion.
Eternal wisdom
and fantasy,
A whole cosmos
conceived in grace,
Behold old
stained and frayed thin strands,
In gossamer, an
old piece of lace.
