poetry

Her mother's quick fingers sewing up holes:
The perpetual holes of poverty, buying clothes secondhand.
The holes mended, her mother would retreat to
The kitchen, a place of comfort and of golden smells mingling.
Even in the garish yellow sunset, her mother gave off a strong radiance.
Her father home from his humble taxi driver's job,
Locked in embrace, they were twin mountains.
And she was a foothill in their shadow.

Second poem, pirated from Eugenia Collier's "Sweet Potato Pie." I like it a lot, expresses the love of a family rather well, I think. That's what I was trying to get across.