Old Coverlet

Made of far more than squares of calico,

This cherished coverlet, for Granny's fingers

Stitched in the faith that prompted men to go

To blossom barren sands. In each block lingers

The story she would tell me when a child--

Dear wise-tongued Granny! I heard graves' still-calling

Along the prairie; ghosts of wolf-cries, wild,

Slow-muted by the streams from mountains falling

Upon a fruited valley ... On the way

I saw Gran's sunburnt smiles, her tears ... In sorrow

Holding to the frayed hem of yesterday,

She reached to touch the new robe of tomorrow.

Not calico, but Granny's starward eyes--

What joy and grief and dreams each block encloses!

Loved murmur of desert lullabies,

She lived to see the wasteland bright with roses.