Quilt

A mass of lovely flowers,
In floss of softest pink.
Laid across my bed roll,
All treasured...now I think.

How my mother stitched them,
When I was but a child.
When I was young and tender,
And had looked to her...and smiled.

A quilt of dainty stitches,
With lines, in vines to sink.
And little bitsy flowers clung,
In clusters bright and pink.

Times were...when I was fevered,
Those tiny flowers came.
And danced around the covers,
To make a cheerful game.

My mother now...has gone away,
And in my passing hours.
My fingers feel the softest strands,
All etched within the flowers.


E.P. 1908 - 1989

Family; Quilt made by Marilyn Pickett Hunter in 1974