“Cross-Stitch,” Ensign, July 2000, 35
As a young mother, I found great consolation in my cross-stitch.
While my five boys and one girl tangled and tumbled toward adulthood,
I took comfort in predictable patterns of tiny x’s.
While my six claimed right to their own designs, somewhat irregular,
My obedient needle laid down ordered rows on my command.
While my half-dozen searched, stretched, and stumbled beyond the narrow frame,
My finished cloths were ironed flat, pinned square, preserved safe behind glass.
My greater work moved on, minding their own unique specifications,
And I no longer cross-stitch; its flat restrictions can’t satisfy.
Now I delight instead in six patterns, living, new, and finer far
Than I could ever make with mere needle, thread, and tiny x’s.