The Dereliction -

Let eye lick along the daring prick
of a heart's grommet,
and taste the salt
in a mother's wounded stitch.

Eyelet is the logos,
the sash upon embroidery,
where designs can only bunch
in the bundling
of heavier threads.

But stell is the static,
of what we sew.
Rarely it unravels with ease.

Fringe in the tips
compliments the tat
of her tiny hands,
and we brag of her beauty
as she swags
with girlish danglings.

Infringe upon the union
of christening,
and wedding gowns.
Expound the grounded
circling of a deeper bind.
It is a mending
often left undone.

Mothers, spinning lace,
rarely notice hems
fraying in the mud.