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Raven Quilt
After “Moonlight Mile,” a Quilt by Phyllis Schuit
To stitch waves, an ocean of turquoise
and indigo, blast the mustard sun
like a comet into the sky—what joy!
To draw with black thread the spidery
branches of a winter oak, where ravens perch.
To guide the needle through foamy dusk,
embroider layered feathers that flock together--
black ravens, scarlet ravens, a torrent of flight.
In another life, I might have sewn
a quilt or two, but my Brother machine,
which I’d lent my friend Pauline,
got sold off in a yard sale years ago
by her eldest daughter, Sharpee-signed
$25 on a piece of masking tape.
By way of apology, Pauline gave me
a stained-glass loon she’d made-- a fair trade.
So now I stand and admire
the ravenous, day-sky, night-sky quilt,
hanging in this library
where midnight birds thrive.
And when I get home, I holler
caw caw caw, into the velvet night.
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Raven Quilt
After “Moonlight Mile,” a Quilt by Phyllis Schuit
To stitch waves, an ocean of turquoise
and indigo, blast the mustard sun
like a comet into the sky—what joy!
To draw with black thread the spidery
branches of a winter oak, where ravens perch.
To guide the needle through foamy dusk,
embroider layered feathers that flock together--
black ravens, scarlet ravens, a torrent of flight.
In another life, I might have sewn
a quilt or two, but my Brother machine,
which I’d lent my friend Pauline,
got sold off in a yard sale years ago
by her eldest daughter, Sharpee-signed
$25 on a piece of masking tape.
By way of apology, Pauline gave me
a stained-glass loon she’d made-- a fair trade.
So now I stand and admire
the ravenous, day-sky, night-sky quilt,
hanging in this library
where midnight birds thrive.
And when I get home, I holler
caw caw caw, into the velvet night.