The Garment

The whirring of her sewing machine
         while I watched
         as her magic fingers
        fashioned clothing from yards of fabric and thread.

          She listened to my chatter
             Sifting through to find 
              the real story.
         Afternoons, evenings spent
               at her side
           The fabric fed through the machine
             Stiches evenly sewn

            She  fastened my tears and fears
                  to her ample bosom
            The curly haired girl at her side,
                one more piece of material to shape.

Barbara Ehrentreu's Questions:

Do you think that the ending helps to explain the title? 

Can you tell that this poem is about my mother, or should I add more to bring out that meaning?

On Seeing A Baby in a Stroller

         The baby lay in its plush stroller
         Feet pumping up and down
         One foot bare.
         I could see into her eyes that smiled at me
         and envisioned
         those tiny feet filling larger socks and her
         baby jeans enlarged to fit a teen-aged body
  
         My mind wandered back 
         Peeling off the years  
         Like layers of fresh danish,
         Sweet and crumbly
         The taste of them
         The baby days and times,
         The pastry of youth
         Just a memory to me now

Barbara Ehrentreu's Questions:

When I write that the years are being peeled away are you aware that I am thinking back to the time when I had babies? 

Do I convey the feelings I had those years ago with the metaphor of the danish?

Summer

The days dripped by in cascades of 
dappled sunshine.  Summer
sucked the energy from our winterworn
bodies with its moisture laden air hung heavy
with broken promises and unfulfilled dreams

These months had been expected to ride by
in a haze of freedom and endless moments
to explore the possibles and the impossibles
that had lain on our plates too long.
The vague "I might do this soon"
intoned as I gazed at the unfolded piles of
unused clothing,
the detritus of our life, 
the inbetweens of uncertainty
whose memories lingered in the cartoon fronts
of too small tee shirts
and old footed pajamas that were
pinned to me by the snapshots I
kept in my head
You wrapped yourself in  gossamer
dreams, a Venus not ready to rise from 
her shell, the endless possiblities of 
adolescence drifting away like dust 
particles in bright sunshine 
as you
found yourself held hostage by your
own demons,  
but I shunned all and marveled at the
perfection of the rosebuds that dared to
live in their potbound plastic and
lifted their proud red heads to the sky 
to blend with the sun in happy 
anicipation of the cooling dew.

Barbara Ehrentreu's Questions:

Is it obvious that I am talking about my daughter here as well as myself?

In the second stanza "the inbetweens of uncertainty", can you see that I am not able to tackle this job because of my memories?