The Quilting Bee

Nothing is quite so precious,
So delicate as this sister time,
The stitching of the quilting stars
Flowing across the vision of the eyes
Of needles held by tender hands.
Awareness blossoms as a flower
Breaks open in the springtime morning sun,
Heats the naked fingers as healing touch
Slowly warms the cold and bitter heart.

Nothing is so temporary as this freshness
Of the present hour— not hour but minute,
Not minute but instant moment as it
Passes praises through the heart, pulses
In feathery detail against the
Fabric of the afternoon—  yet
Smaller, as a glinting ray of light
Hanging in the air before the night,
Passing, always passing, one stitch
At a time held within the hand,
Hope of future implications lost
Within the complications of the mind.

Nothing is more beautiful than to live
Within this power, the realization
Brand new, this quilting bee humming
Above all memory of the maternal past,
Sewing briskly into the necessary,
Ordinary pleasure of the cloth of love—
This very moment, this eternal Now.


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