Monday, October 20, 2008


A million of us have breathed
the clean smell of hot muslin,
have felt it between our fingers,
rich and velvety.

Or rejoiced,
laughing, talking of nothings,
ripe with our unborn,
in the sharp tang of August geraniums.

Some of us fashion quilts not of cloth,
but of memories, or of words,
or of families.

We are thus inherited by our daughters,
quiltmakers all.

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