Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Back to bed, springs

Cahas Mountain is slow to green in April,
looking like my brown-haired girl
tugging the satiny ancient
quilt
up to her twinkles.

Quilts my grandmothers made,
scraps not bought
but carefully stowed
in the blanket chest,
it too made, of
walnut
by one grandfather.

Quilts cool to the touch,
warming underneath,
piled with memories
of giggles,
tears,
Grandmother’s skin,
her loudly
proudly
sung old hymns.
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