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.
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