Patchwork Square

The view from an oval window mounted on the fuselage of an airplane flying through a blue sky peppered with salt-colored clouds

Above little squares framed with trees and white picket fences, with city streets and buildings stretching into the air, all remind the eyes of

A patchwork quilt spread across hills and valleys, across mountains and streams, telling in its contours the stories of the land below.

Age is said, to only be a number, but if you gave each year passing a meaning, they would spread out across a life, like an airplane's quilt.

A landscape of diaries, stitched from days, cobbled from nights, where eyes met the first time, where moments felt like forever, before they were gone.

Where pieces of fabric would keep reminders of pasts swirling, alive with regret and hope, with broken places and palaces.

Happy colors, filled with smiles and laughs, would be reflections of, better times when naive hearts thought the sun would always shine.

Patterns would tell stories of love, over and over, wrapping each word, warm against naked skin, before stripping them away, again.

Images from ghosts would sew themselves, into tattered places, torn inside hurting souls, to close invisible wounds with hidden scars.

Hellos and goodbyes would weave in and out of squares, leaving some whole, and some with deep holes dug into their centers.

Frayed edges would show, where the weight was too much for imperfect hands, where burdens trailed on the ground, behind weary feet.

Tears in the cloth, where everything happening, ripped like bullet holes from a firing gun, would be cautionary tales, of how wrong things can be.

Hand-sewn stitching would mark the quilt's canvas, the way dandelions mark the bleakness of the soil below, with bright yellow blooms.

Cotton filling in between whole cloth and backing would not be enough to warm the cold, lonely thoughts twirling around, in the dark at 2 am.

Borders would keep the light in a child's eyes, the lines marking a face, inside a single shape, the way a Babushka doll nestles smaller ones.

Last hours would pass, the way ships pass in the night, and the quilt would fall to the ground, to be a single patchwork square below an airplane above.

For Poppy's Prompt thingo....