OLD QUILT DAY

On this day, cold damp and gray
I look through rain drenched window pane
as mantle clock tics time away
while outside chill bare tree limbs sway.

I try to ignore old joints' pain,
another alteration brought by age
enhanced, perhaps, by winter rain.
No good is gained should I complain.

Another day, another page
yet one more day of living's paid
as I step closer to old age
a journey against which I rage.

I wrap myself in blanket, frayed
seeking warmth beneath the threadbare cover
an old quilt which my mother made
whose colors have begun to fade.

And as I sit I soon discover
a peaceful warmth enfolding me
warmth sewn in by my long passed mother.
Years fade as I think of her.

For in my mind I plainly see
her loving hands with shears and pins,
thick glasses on so she can see
stitching this future warmth for me.