The enduring
smell
of oak wood maturing,
and a slight allusion
of dampness
encased in its
memories,
storing them in time.
I open the case
where the quilt rests.
Each stitching
had been blessed,
By hands generations
before mine.
I lay out the quilt.
Its like acres
of fondness.
I see the gap
for me to fill.
I sit still and
gather my thoughts
with my needle
and thread
to sow my
allotment bed.
I place the photo
of my son.
I patch him in
as my rising sun.
Below, are my trees
Role models that
have educated me.
Then, the grounds of
my weakness.
The storms of pain,
prejudice and loneliness,
which I have travelled
at great length.
Because,
without such experiences,
I would not have
found my strength.
I fold my quilt,
with a patch
ready for the next one.
I place the needle and
thread on top,
for generations to come.
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