Moths ate holes in the fabric of our family quilt.
Birds have gathered the loosened threads
Scattering its string over their nests. The ticking no longer holds the batting in place.
A stranger picks up the quilt, tossing it over a fence to air.
The quilt’s fabric waves in shreds, shivering in the early morning chill.
Mistakes are slow and sticky. We are plastered with them. Like moths, errors crawl through our fabric, hanging on.
Recordkeeping is not worth the card stock it is written on.
Echoes are moving to a better place, only you know where.