Made of far more than squares of calico,
This cherished coverlet, for Granny's fingers
Stitched in the faith that prompted men to go
To blossom barren sands. In each block lingers
The story she would tell me when a child--
Dear wise-tongued Granny! I heard graves' still-calling
Along the prairie; ghosts of wolf-cries, wild,
Slow-muted by the streams from mountains falling
Upon a fruited valley ... On the way
I saw Gran's sunburnt smiles, her tears ... In sorrow
Holding to the frayed hem of yesterday,
She reached to touch the new robe of tomorrow.
Not calico, but Granny's starward eyes--
What joy and grief and dreams each block encloses!
Loved murmur of desert lullabies,
She lived to see the wasteland bright with roses.
