We've pieced together this life
with a mix of threads,
and found the corners didn't meet.
I pulled, you stretched,
we got out the seam ripper.
Next time, I said.
Next time, You said.
We pulled out a hundred threads
but again, it's crooked.
We blamed the machine, Grandma's
old scissors--each other.
I give up, I said.
I don't, You said.
It seems silly now, because when we
started over to cut new pieces,
the pattern was crooked, guilty
from the first.
Now I pin and fold hidden edges,
to finish this quilt. It's ours, and we made it
ourselves. Crooked or not, when we
sleep under it at night, it's warm
and the beautiful threads I added to
tack down the lumps, turn into
paths for stars dancing in a midnight blue
canopy, their tip-tapping path echoes
the beat of a branch
on our windowpane.