Patch Work Poem by Glen Martin Fitch

Patch Work



Back home one night
I felt a steady draft.
I found a bundle
on a closet shelf.
My mom had treasured
her mom's handicraft.
My grandma was
a comforter herself.
A flannel field,
a denim sky,
No waste!
Each frayed and faded piece-
a mystery.
No scrap was ever
tossed away in haste.
Each old time print
contains its history.
That night
like almost every restless night
strange vignettes flash
of faces, things,
yet switched in time or place.
Haphazard remnants
stitched together,
making no sense
come the light.
Those crazy quilts of dreams
I can't explain.
I seek a blissful
land of counter-pain.

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