Disparate patches

Disparate patches, forgotten fragments.

discarded and left over, folded

in a blue box at the back of the closet:

Eliza’s dress, Franklin’s shirt (ruined

by the bullet hole at Shiloh), gingham

from curtains and tablecloths, red

velvet from a stole, all fashioned

into a covering for decoration, then

warmth, then utility; lining the bottom

of the wagon headed west, protection

against mosquitoes and later Rockies

cold and ice; a corner singed that night

in the desert, the fabric absorbing

the smell of the fire the taste of the flame

the light of the stars and almost a shroud

when the fever came. A mottled collection

of scraps and repaired and ill-repaired and

not repaired pieces but it reads biography,

it reads history, it reads family.

This poem is submitted to the One Word Blog Carnival hosted by Peter Pollock, using “quilts” as the prompt. To see more posts, please visit Peter's site. The links will be live at 10 p.m. Central time tonight.

Photograph: Antique Quilt, via FlosieFloo.com