My daughter, diving deep into her art,
forms abstract patterns—hand-dyed and rusted
silk, mixed media, weaved stitching all part
of each work. I marvel how she’s trusted
her heart, her growing skills of artist’s eye
and graceful hands, transforming emotion
and intelligence onto fiber. I
see this as poet, steeped in devotion
to art as blessed images, spirit’s prize.
I see this as father, recalling how,
at age four, she caught us by such surprise
with her finger painting, (I’m smiling now)
her mom and I soared in its dimension.
We framed and hung it in our Polk Street den.
Roger Armbrust
May 10, 2007
