A Love Like None Other
Ah, the gaiety that must have overtaken
As they assembled the fabrics,
Recounting family stories told
From the nimbleness of their fingers,
A diary of their ages,
A treasure of a quilt began to grow,
So too the creativity
Of precious silken threads,
Painting needled pictures.
The treasured old bed, slept in,
Bumped up against, scarred,
A symbol of the hand tools used
Silent, now, like the man
So, too, the walnut tree
From which it was carved.
Fashioned with necessity
And shaped with great love,
The rope twisted and turned,
Much like a reflection of life itself.
At the hands of a mother, and aunt
Or a grandmother, the fabric
Once masqueraded as garments,
Shirts, dresses, and more.
Now, aged, faded and worn,
The quilt, is still a thing of beauty.
Life continued, as did the months,
The years, the past finding itself
In the present, transformed
Becoming more mature.
The strong frame of the bed,
Like the frame of their marriage
A criss cross of a map, a mat
Filled with down, their wedding bed,
The pallet upon which they only
Were aware of each other
And of their pent up lust.
Now only the bed and its cover remain
A treasure like their love,
A love like none other.
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(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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