I have need of a peaceful retreat—
from news that pounds like hail on a roof,
from world disasters, uncivil tweets—
so under my quilt, I hide—aloof.
Rescued from death in an old cedar chest,
it smells of forest and old campfires.
Wrapped in the quilt, I clear my head,
and file away thoughts of life that tire.
Its rustic appeal suits me well:
the mended edges, the patched up pieces
blanket me in a homespun shell.
I huddle within, safe from life’s reaches
and drift and dream, aware of my breath—
breathe in, breathe out … then in again—
centering me through disease and death,
the loss of my dogs, and passing of friends.
Oh to be swaddled in comfort of babes.
Hide me away from decisions and fears,
even if only the crudest of caves
to stave off cold, and a world too near.
To get away from the glaring light,
the mind needs only a meager abode—
a simple escape from complex life.
My quilt is my Walden, far from the road.