The Blue Square

The air got thin today, like worn silk,

a chill that seeped beyond my milk.

I went to the cedar chest, you see,

for something meant specifically

to hold me. Not the fluffy throw,

or one that sports ridiculous woe

of tassels. No. The quilt. The blue.

Worn smooth where fingers trace it through.

Mom stitched it up, a long time past,

when time itself seemed built to last.

It smells of dust, and attic air,

a comfort difficult to bear

because it anchors me right here,

dispelling every present fear

with faded florals, dim and deep,

secrets the silent stitches keep.

This patchwork weight, it’s not too light,

a solid anchor in the night.