The quilt in her lap, she sits by the light,
Working her fingers to the bone.
It’s 2 am in the deep of the night,
Each stitch a memory, each patch a milestone.
The patchwork, a tapestry of their love,
Stories woven in fabric and thread.
A square for their first kiss under the moon,
Another for sunny days, picnics, and when they wed.
She works her fingers to the bone,
Mending the dandelions and the dove.
In the quiet, her heart hums their song,
Each thread a testament to their love.
The Babushka dolls sit, lined on the shelf,
Guardians of a memory so dear.
Inside the smallest, a ring once hid,
His proposal, whispered, still she hears.
Her fingers hold the needle tight,
Sewing the quilt that cradled their dreams.
Bullet holes, a stark reminder of fate,
Yet in the threads, their love still gleams.
She opens her eyes, now filled with tears,
As she hums and sews, her heartache unfolds.
The Russian dolls, the quilt, their love,
Each stitch, a tale of warmth is told.
I wrote this poem in response to Poppy's Prompts - January Edition
About the Creator
Xine Segalas
"This is my art - and it's dangerous!" Okay, maybe not so dangerous, but it could be - if - when I am in a mood.
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