Worn Patchwork

The old quilt, found deep in the clothes,

a thin, faded ghost from my bed.

Each square a memory, the story it knows,

of childhood fears, and words left unsaid.

The stitching is loose, the fabric worn thin,

you can almost see through to the floor.

My cat found it, purring within,

kneading a spot by the bedroom door.

It feels heavier now, than it did as a child,

each patch a tiny, small weight that it bears.

A pattern distorted, a little bit wild,

a comfort of years, a solace of cares.

It’s just an old blanket, not much to behold,

but it holds every secret, a story untold.