Little House in the Big Thicket
A yellow light glowed from the window framed in lace
curtains, as smoke snaked from the chimney to the tall pines
surrounding the little house in the thicket. There was only a
quilting frame, two wooden chairs and a Bible in the living
room where Ms. Dickens and Ms. Danell spent their days.
The two old women discussed their husbands, their
children, the weather and the crops, while creating
quilts with hundreds of teeny tiny stiches, piece by piece.
They stitched year in and year out, through wars, thirteen
presidents and women achieving the right to vote.
Quilts from scraps of red and yellow flowers formed
the base, while triangles of small floral prints and solid
colors created the triangle within squares pattern.
Scraps from dresses, shirts, coats and pants made
for husbands and children to wear long ago.
A labor of love, made with gnarled hands that kneaded
dough, rocked babies to sleep and stirred soup pots.
Quilts that now grace the beds and walls of relatives,
who never saw the little house in the Big Thicket, or
the women, who now live only in each teeny tiny stitch.
Selected as Juried Poet Houston Poetry Festival 2011 and printed in anthology
Trees brimmed with birds
chattering and chasing each other
like children playing at recess
until a blanket of rosy,
blue and buttery stripes
tucked in the reluctant day.
Birds as silent as the
settled in for a
prime time show-
dark sky suddenly
glittered with glowing stars.
The little ones fell asleep
first, then mom and dad.
Shutting the doors and windows,
my soul purred.
I almost forgot
you were not
here with me.
Tell me, is it true
the days in heaven
will be like this,
except we will
be together again
like we were
all of those years
after our first kiss
Published in The Enigmatist 6th Edition