6/1/11

The quilt was stretched, pulled thin and taught,

By those who strove to thwart the cold,

It’s weak seams, strained by those who fought,

To have their share of covering.

Frayed strands were tied by those who sought,

To aid it’s failing form to hold.

Alas, repairs were all for naught,

To halt this patchwork’s suffering.

For each restitching only brought,

Another vacant, newfound fold,

Of healing cloth which might be caught,

By needy grips unwavering,

Such violent yanks which rent and wrought,

This threadbare fabric, worn and old,

By those who never paused and thought,

What comfort could loose tatters bring?