Quilt

there is an elk

rusting in the palmetto

the sun masquerades as star 

masks an erratic patch of sky

loose shape of mistaking day 

as usual I  am guiltless

stitching some rough poem 

with its pieces of cotton 

silk linen

left in the sun 

faded weakened 

all but forgotten

I call over to viola

she is cheerily ironing wrinkles 

out of my 

quilted 

clouds

jppestana december 6, 2016