White shows through worn green veins
at the edges of the quilt on my bed.
It is a fragile relic meant for a museum
but the nothing weight is perfect for my skin,
thin petals of foxglove and hollyhock,
a breeze-bent gauze of pollen and light.
No one knows for sure
which great aunt or grandmother
held the needle between fingers
then nimble enough
to drive the needle straight
through miles of scrap
over the rough terrain of a century
all the way to me.
I curl beneath her offering.
A storm blows just outside the panes,
tossing limbs against the sky
as I tuck my own around my heart
and pull the quilt in tight
despite its brittle threads.
The Sioux cannot be blamed
for believing hand-stitched leather
could protect them in battle.
We cannot know the true nature of the threat
until the first time
and sometimes, not even then.
The ones who come before weave enchantments
into everything they leave
for progeny they may never meet
whose trials they can hardly imagine.
It is insufficient magic,
yet none more powerful exists.
We cannot be blamed
for wrapping ourselves in beautiful folly
on occasions
when the wind is fierce
and the night is long.
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