Can you put your hand upon your heart?
And say you finish all you start
That in your cupboard there is not
A project started and forgot
Of half done things your shelves are bare
There is no skeleton lurking there?
Either my friend you tell a lie
Or have more ruthlessness than I
What of the set of place mats there?
A Christmas gift for yesteryear
Designs I like technique is good
I’ll finish them I know I should
About that cushion at the back
Why choose white instead of black?
There’s the pile of blocks I won last year
I almost forgot that they were there
Our quilting things are a part of us
Is it fair to them to leave them thus?
They helped us make each forward stride
Why should they just be pushed aside?
Turn them into things we can all admire
By using the skills they helped you acquire
With a conscience clear, and a space you gain
And you could start the rigmarole again!
When the sun rises over the horizon,
the butterfly emerges to dance in its brilliant light.
It flickers its colorful wings with euphoria,
To celebrate all the beauty found
in the majestic garden of life.
When the moon arrives in the darkness,
The moth appears at the disappearance of sunlight.
It flickers its pale wings as it shakes from its deep slumber,
To go search for food
To carry it through the night.
The moth prefers the moon and detests the sun,
while the butterfly loves the sun and hides from the moon.
Every living creature responds to light,
But depending on the amount of light you have inside,
Determines which lamp in the sky
Your heart will swoon.
Day after day the pattern grew;
Each block was deftly set in place,
And rows of tiny stitches tell
A tale that time cannot efface.
Of patience, skill, housewifely pride,
Of women's love for pretty thing,
Of fingers trained such work to do
By those who know the joy it btings,
Of time within the home weel spent,
The heart with homely tasks content.