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My husband made a quilt
of his own,
put it together
with a natural eye for color,
delicious cucumber green
zucchini-flower gold
and tomatoes in
variegated, heirloom reds
beneath a mottled border of leaves.
It didn't start out
as a scrap quilt,
just tidy calico strips,
alternating earthy browns.
But once he laid the materials out,
moved things around a bit,
he realized those beans
from last year needed a patch.
Then my mother gave us radishes
and all hell broke loose.
You could almost see the man unraveling,
his pristine pattern
taking unplanned turns,
looking more like a Log Cabin
than originally planned,
a trellis for the snap peas
stuck right in the middle.
So he did what all good quilters would:
he went out
to buy more material.
After all, the edges were screaming
for kohlrabi,
and once they're gone,
you can't get more
till next year.
He finished the sales spree
with a collection of spices
speaking my kitchen needs
to him at the garden center.
When he returned
he was focused, buried
up to his eyeballs,
fitting in the last rows like
missing blocks,
pressing the seams tight,
spraying them as if with starch,
knowing they would not stay
where he had planted them
for long.
In late June, he stood back,
surveyed his eclectic masterpiece,
and declared that
next year's garden would be bigger,
squash needs more room.
But I know he wants extra tomatoes for the freezer,
enough jalapenos for homemade chili;
a good quilter,
he wants to keep us warm
all winter long.
From Coffee Break for Quilters: A Patchwork of Original Poems (Tree Deck, 2012).
Used here with the author's permission.
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