I've been most fortunate in mother-in-laws.
One a knitter
Of Simple throws
Shorn of glitter.
One a quilter
Of Patterns warm
None off kilter.
Knitting with colors bold,
Making much of whatever was fitting,
Tying our strains so tightly together
That even though I became an outlaw
Still I remained
An accepted one,
A valid strain.
Quilting our scraps each in line
Bequeathing a permanence,
Finding the match in the disparate
Showing me such kindly kinship
That I might acquire
A sense of place,
A solid base.
With such models before me,
How could I not become
A more fitting in-law?
