My beautiful quilt, in a cabinet in my room,

Spun from the most delicate loom,

Many stories it needs to tell,

The quilt that I would never, ever, sell.

A hundred years old or more,

Sewed with real tales and fairytale lore,

Wonderful secrets of mire and mist,

Many children under this blanket were kissed.

On it my great-grandmother's painting, so long ago,

Even though quite faded, it does still show,

A family around a table eating a Thanksgiving meal,

With joy on their faces, and a wagon wheel.

Another with a prince fighting a troll,

A glorious snowy night, the sky as black as coal.

Some are happy, some are sad,

But none of them are ever bad.

Still, I can think of nothing better to do

Than to listen to the mourning doves coo,

And to curl up in a quilt of stories and dreams,

Of soft grass and sunlight beams.

I tell the quilt many tales,

Of mysterious forests and golden sails.

Sometimes I think I can hear the quilt whisper in my ear,

Though sometimes the voice will dissappear,

"Thank you for the stories you tell.

Your grandchildren will know them well."

_pure_imagination_