Just Old Scraps

In my treasures like all of us hold, I have a bedspread, a fad of old. My mother cut millions of circles of scraps, From our little outgrown dresses she’d hold. She’d sew each circle into a little puff And lay it out on a sheet of pale green, Then make circles of that same pale green To design squares of printed circles between. (Now if that is confusing, don’t mind what I mean Heirlooms are hard to explain, it seems). I still have that bedspread so fragile now, Many connecting threads broken and rot, When I drape that yoyo bedspread on my lap, And touch and feel the so many scraps, Then recall when I wore this dress or that, And my sister and I played in floppy scrap sun hats I remember nostalgically those evenings when My little mother’s needle punched out and in.