Old Quilting Circle

her hands couldn't keep hold of the needle
slowly working its way down the swatches
a stitch for every ten ticks of the grandfather clock

threading together the patchwork quilt of her own
life
in her hands, as they trembled
shaking instructors to the careless


fingers, pricked and bleeding
around the loops of the small fibers
holding everything together
and just a quick jerk
a small distraction
the turn of her eye, the flinch of a nerve
threatening to unravel


the simple life
she had created
cradled in the callouses
of hangnails and dry cuticles
and worn against the ridges
of wrinkles
til the creak of the her wooden chair companion
screeched a protest to fall silent


as the material tugged
slipped
from her hands
to rest quiet
at her uncurled feet.

Content Copyright 2011. Ami Lovelace. All Rights Reserved.