As a child I watched silently,
questioning how her fading eyes
could envision two hundred triangles.
An elaborate planned neighborhood
of harmony and contrast, held
together by highways of thread.
Her creased mouth parted
"Scraps of cloth are effortless
after piecing together 28,000 days."
Closets have a way of becoming full;
they alone laugh at entropy. Nestled
between photo albums and ticket stubs
The abandoned quilt waits patiently
for my young eyes to discern the pattern
and my rushing heart to find the days.
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