Somewhere in the Appalachian Hills quilted with love
there are cottages and curtains clothes on sills, quilted with love.
Up high in deep where electric wires don't reach where night is dark
and the ridge the deepest blue of spruce hearts are still, quilted with love.
Across the table hewn from ancient apple, rubbed and oil, flat, sweet
lies a cloth that Gram made from flour sacks once filled, quilted with love.
The stream, miles off, had held a mill where wheat was yearly brung
our harvest gleaning we would bring barefoot uphill, quilted with love.
Nothing was wasted then, old clothes, became new, small bits of sacks
bought comfort, hot pots to hold, mended gifts, heart instilled, quilted with love.