The Quilt

Sown together,
A patchwork quilt,
Torn and worn
Through all the years.

Sew places torn.
Patch places worn.
Put away to be used again.
Soft and broken in.
But not much left
To cushion or to warm
Against the chill of autumn,
The cold of winter, or the setting sun.
Not much left to be any good at all.

You’d have to take it apart.
Re-stitch, re-sew, replace the batting,
Find new scrapes and cut to make the pieces fit.
Wouldn’t it be better to start from scratch
Than to try to re-make something so old, so worn, so weary?
Wearied from the years of sheltering breaking hearts,
Wearied from the years of taking tears,
Wearied of being tossed to the floor
When the needing time ended,
Wearied of being the place
Of softness
For everyone else,
But itself.

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