The Quilter

Looks strangely out of place

In the aged, care-worn hands.

And yet, I can’t imagine those hands

Without a needle being held in the fingers.

In and out, in and out

The needle flies through the fabric

Connecting the tiny pieces into a pattern.

How many stitches, how many patterns

How many quilts have those hands made?

The hands are freckled with gnarled joints.

The skin at the base of the fingers

And back of the hand and wrist

Is tissue paper thin and wrinkled.

And yet, what is more beautiful?

The finished quilt

Or the hands that made it?