by Jennifer G. Cuthbertson

My hand wavers over the bar marked snooze.
Reluctantly I wake, and gingerly touch toes
to hardwood floor. I pull the quilt
up and over rumpled sheets,
lining up the gold and yellow
sawtooth stars,

which march around the edges.
I admire the fabric scrapped
from flowered sacks, church dresses
and my grandfather's first long pants.
I feel my great-grandmother
reaching out to me as I smooth the edges
of the Dresden plates--

the perfect concentric circles created
by my Granny's hands.
I never wonder how,
quilts require no complicated proofs
no acquaintance with the fact

a number times itself
is always its own square;
a square that Granny might have joined to others
to create a simple nine-patch block,

or perhaps the square divides, yields two
yellow triangles,
opens up more possibilities.

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