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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