My grandmother never had much of an eye for colors.
Pink ginghams and red calicos
Sang blue note chords and danced
Through windmills and double wedding rings
On the way to Aunt Cille's log cabin.
I still remember her calloused fingers
As she pulled the thread
Toward her chest and back again,
Keeping rhythm
With the melodies of firewood stacks
And used bowling trophies.
I remember how she used to make me pallets
For those adventurous nights away from home.
Nothing felt better than drifting
To sleep wrapped in one of grandma's quilts;
Listening to her cracked, aged voice
Singing, "Bye, oh, baby."
So warm, I thought I would never feel cold
Again.

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