Crocheted Hearts Poem by William Coyne

My mother's crocheted hearts of flimsy yarn,
knitted into white collars for costumes
worn by Irish dancers, starched rigidly,
and ironed flat, pinned to blouses colored
green and black, held a point of dignity
high above the piking toes, akimbo
arms, perfectly straight and upright torsos,
that hypnotized their audience in the frenzied
whirls and stamps and twirling bodies hurling
around the stage to rills flung from pipes
and drums to flourishes of Celtic songs.

Those tiny hearts, almost too small to see
beyond the first six rows without long glasses,
adorned her fine dancing lads and lasses
every bit as fine as their own hearts,
noble, true, adorned their spirited movement
that Irish grace and earned due pride imparts.
My mother's crippled legs partook of each step
played out on the stage as she watched from far
atop the cheaper seats where she sat thrilled.
And she was young and filled with life again,
her love of dance found way to dance once more.