The Mountain Laurel
The Journal of Mountain Life

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from the
Heart of the Blue Ridge

The Quilter

By Lyn Aydelette © 1988

Issue: January-February, 1988

She would place her flowered pieces
Very thoughtfully on the floor,
They were her kind of thesis,
She never needed more.

With many a snip of scissors now
Rearranged shapes would fall and scatter,
No one could understand how
She made important spaces matter.

Her quilts were special in design,
Every stitch made by her fingers.
Each the only one you'll find,
Their harmony still lingers.

The hours spent over her quilting frame
Were hours she loved to live.
It was a precise tranquil game
Of a skill she was willing to give.

Her love for others in her life
Was sewn into the little squares,
Being a mother, being a wife
Showed up in matching pairs.

So while she sat late through the night
With lamplight flickering on her face
She stitched her quilts oh-so-tight
To preserve the human race.