We take our fabric
from the field that Lincoln plowed, the same earth mound-builders aligned
with the movement of stars. We choose our colors from the trees
as they travel toward winter and thread our vision with the Wabash—
old river of moonlight winding past field and waterwheel and town. Love of confluence calls us
to weave together tattered and new, rough and smooth, dark and bright,
to stitch the flight of birds to what turns in the wind
or beats a riff like rain on pavement. From a curb on Indiana Avenue,
the work of our hands radiates outward; block by block, circle by circle,
a pattern is growing— log cabin, Jacob’s ladder, spinning star—
a pathway to freedom yet to be named,
a counterpane, warm and beautiful, touching us like sunrise.