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
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
opens up more possibilities.