Quilts can be cozy, warm and enduring
Worked in patches of love by hands that are caring
Cotton or corduroy, rayon or wool
King size or queen size, double or full

On a cold winter’s night filled with arctic cold air
Their warmth and their shelter cannot be compared
You cuddle and snuggle, feeling sheltered and loved
Your body protected, as inside a glove

But quilts don’t just happen, they have to be made
From remnants of fabrics so carefully saved
Old dresses or shirt sleeves, or baby’s first frock
Patches from history together are locked

Eyes not acquainted with fabrics and threads
See only a scrap pile, turn; shaking their heads
Cutting and ripping and tearing to shreds
How could this ever fit anyone’s bed?

But the eye of the seamstress sees more than you know
For in her hand, she has the knowledge to sew
She snips, trims and shapes the fabric just right
For a mis-matched pattern is a terrible sight!

She matches and patches and stitches with ease
As her pattern unfolds she is joyfully pleased
For on winter’s long nights of unending cold
Her loved ones will have her comfort to hold

Life is so similar, to quilting you know
With remnants of memories to keep or to throw
Heartache and triumph, sorrow or joy
Each piece has it’s place in the heart of your soul

The seamstress for families is a strong loving hand
Who fashions us each according to plan
Cutting and ripping and tearing to shreds
So painful and rending, it causes such dread

He patches and matches and stitches with ease
He stitches together whomever he please
Needles and straight pins and fabric and bows
His knowledge is greater than all of those

For life is of families, their triumphs and woes
Our Father is touched by each one of those
It takes mending and “peace-ing” to make it all work
He “peaces” so carefully, so no one gets hurt

Heaven is home where his family grows
We all want to be there and surely he knows
So he pieces and patches and he cuts and he fits
For God’s making families and he won’t call it quits
Connie Walcott © 1996 All Rights Reserved

I wrote this poem during my first admittance to a psychiatric hospital. As you can see, my rose colored glasses were still firmly intact!