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sunning on clothes lines
at the antique store
ten or twelve quilts
breath on the breeze
hum with stories
told at bees where
busy fingers
thimbled strong
knew the passage
of each tiny stitch
knew the patterns
how they fell
in the gathering darkness
of afternoon storms
proprietors rush
to gather in arms
all the scraps of ties
party dresses
Sunday go to
meeting clothes
collected in the rows
of patchwork design
then pile them warm
in stacks like harvest hay
From Zen Fishing and Other Southern Pleasures (Ocean Publishing, 2005).
Used with the author's permission.
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Dorothy K. Fletcher retired in 2007 after 35 years of teaching English in Jacksonville, Florida. Her poetry and articles have appeared in more than eighty publications, and she is the author of four published books. Dorothy resides with her husband, Hardy, in Jacksonville, where they are close to their children and grandchildren. She spends her days working on her monthly column, "By the Wayside," which she writes for The Florida Times Union. Learn more about Dorothy at www.dorothykfletcher.com.
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vmidge@hotmail.com:
Dorothy, what a pleasure to read this and garner the familiar image of quilts on the line. I remember quilts from my childhood as stitched melodies of memories, not perfect, and perhaps in the world's eyes, not beautiful, but providing warmth and solace on cold Buffalo winter nights. My mother digging them out of a chest in the attic, washing them and drying them in the September sun never fails to make me smile. I now live near Amish families and see the bright colors of their quilts that contrast their plain garb and believe they put into those quilts the music of their hearts, and in the patterns rigid but rhythmical, the dancing their feet dare not do. Thank you for sharing this poem with the world, and bringing a half forgotten memory home to make my day a bit brighter!
Posted 11/02/2010 04:56 AM
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