by John Grey

On colder nights,
the sky spreads wider,
a bright seam
of firelight
gleams in each eye,
and your lap’s full of wool,
as you quilt your own sky,
while, outside,
stars take up their places,
the honey-dipped moon
rises among them,
as a wily pattern
is conquered slowly but expertly
by your adroit fingers,
planes and angles
woven in place
in row after row of stitches,
the colors of your personality,
bright and warm,
as needle and thread
is wielded like a god,
omniscient, omnipresent,
but with modest ambitions.

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