The future we may never have.
We save for it, and every detail
seems assured. Each day,
we borrow that, our dream, swirl
around its inner core; make
love to it; keep it in our
nightly bed. It lies across us
now like quilts of old –
beauty in its patchwork glory.
© Diane Beaty
Please note: The poem is mine, but the photo used to accompany this post is a clipart photo. Unfortunately, I don’t have the photographer’s name.
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