Weather beaten and raggedy.
Beloved still,
as told by snaffled threads
from abundant employment.
Comfort still lies,
in enveloping fabric.
Having been the haven
of untold aspirations.
Guardian of serene slumber
and chaser of phantoms.
It has been wept clean
with salted sorrows.
Tasting despair and
containing all anguish.
Still as it's knit one's
pearl two's unravel
becoming more ragged,
it only seems more dear
and infinitely cherished.
This afghan of my gradmothers.


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