Tiny stitched lines of geography sewn
into flesh and muscle,
needled from silken to coarseness,
fragile to enduring.
Fabrics woven into years of patchworked life,
tattered and torn,
to be mended
and forgiven.
Weary threads continue to unravel
and fray
to be caught up again
by sharp silver needles,
darning the gaps,
strengthening the ties,
binding the thoughtless wounds,
the intimate grief.
Steady hands fold the hems,
straight and narrow,
to be cut through
and reworked into patterns
of spring to summer
to autumn.
Each moment embroidered
to its best possible telling
as the pattern emerges
from faded cloth.
Seeing the mythologies explained
in pieced remnant and scrap,
we fold its story around us,
holding on tight against the cold.
(revised)
thecourseofourseasons 
I really love this.. works well on so many layers.
Wonderful poem, Kathleen. When I fly over the country, especially over the Midwest, I visualize the land below as a quilt. Great imagery.
Loved this imagery!
As a sometimes quilter and always needle-crafter, this went right to the <3. I love these lines especially: "to be cut through
and reworked into patterns
of spring to summer
to autumn."
I especially love “binding the thoughtless wounds, the intimate grief.” Made me remember my grandma’s quilts. How I wish I had one now, to wrap around me. Sigh.
That’s lovely 🙂 Had to share it with a friend who quilts!