She is as a quilt.
Soft from use
Threads unraveling
The squares and the pattern
Reveal her history
Dark at times
Moments of brightness
Blinding pain
And the incomparable color of hope.
See the pictures sewn into the patchwork squares?
The one with the tears?
The lonely figure walking the streets.
That was when her world was lost.
See the bird on the one in the middle?
That is when she learned she could fly.
The ship in the corner?
That is when she found her soulmate.
She is as a quilt.
Soft from use.
She covers those she loves.
Warms them
Protects them
Comforts them
Provides them with a soft place
To land.
She is as a quilt.
Soft from use.
People come and see
Her imperfections
They pull at her threads
The tsk tsk with their clicking tongues
They tell her to take better care
That she is looking worn
They pull at her threads
And she unravels.
She is as a quilt.
Soft from use.
Beautiful in her imperfection.

Dickinson said that "hope is the thing with feathers."
Well I say hope is the thing with claws
it attaches itself to my heart and will not let go
it refuses to leave me.
"Tenacious" people say about me.
"Dreamer" is what I whisper to myself.
It is that hope.  Unrelenting, stubborn, confounding hope.
It tells me there is more.
That sad days end.
Frustrations can be beaten.
Dead ends become detours.
Failures are just lessons.
And endings are merely the next chapter beginning.
Hope is the thing with claws,
it has attached itself to my heart,
and refuses to let me go.