Sometimes one does not know an inspiration’s source. A single word, like “quilt,” appears the same time as the muse jostles one’s elbow. The quill rushes off on a mission of its own (though apparently not without rhyme or reason). I do not know where The Quilt comes from. It is nothing from my past, and God, I pray it is nothing from my future. Perhaps it is best to look at it as an exercise in iambic tetrameter and let it go at that.
by Mike Patrick
All night she worked upon the quilt,
Each tiny stitch precisely spaced
And every one pulled oh so tight;
Against the chiming clock she raced.
Her bent and gnarled, aching hands
Seemed graceful in the fading light.
Her squinting eyes were teardrop blurred
And hindered more by failing sight.
It slowly took its final form,
A perfect heart, the central theme,
Instead of one that held a flaw
And shattered her daughter’s dream.
Tis finally done, this tiny quilt,
The smallest one she ever made,
To keep a tiny baby warm
As he’s lowered into his grave.