She found it in an old house, in a trunk of treasures rare.
She took it home and carefully cleaned the dust from each lonely square.
Then she spread it out and studied it and wondered about the one
Who'd sewed each piece and quilted it until the task was done.
She pictured her with braided hair and eyes ocean blue,
And hands that showed the wear and tear from work she had to do
Piecing it together from scrape that she had kept,
At night when she sat down to saw and children finally slept.
Each patch was something different, a special memory,
A dress she'd worn to Sunday school, a blouse she'd worn to tea;
A child's old worn sleeper, her husband's old wool suit,
Her mother's gingham apron, curtains trimmed with fruit.
Each patch was something special, a memory from the past,
Sewed into a patchwork quilt and carefully made to last.
And as she holds it on her lap and pictures her back then,
She knows she sewed this quilt with love for her family and friends.