Such an over-worn tattered cloth, edges frayed, many miles hard traveled
stretched and straining to carry its burdens, keeping safe and protected precious things
small rips and yellowed with stains it is weary, yet refuses to be unraveled .
Such an over-used tattered cloth, silent companion, doing its job as expected
unfailing and uncomplaining it works on, carrying others load to and fro dutiful and proud
only the seams giving testimony to its struggle, its will giving way undetected.
Such an over-handled tattered cloth, pattern faded, not so lovely as it had been long ago
left behind in the sunshine it has weathered, feigning vanity it seems not to notice its age
somehow diminished by loss of vibrancy, and in the faded, wrinkled fabric sorrows show.
Such an over-looked tattered cloth, they hunt for it, but only when they are in need of aid
sought and needed when purpose to serve, too easily left on the shelf, unseen and forgotten
knowing its only value lie in what it can do, realizing it will be easily replaced, little fuss to be made.
Such an over-worn tattered cloth, feeling its softness, under kind yet offhand reminiscent caress
so many memories in this vessel, helping and protecting, giving of itself in spite of cost to itself
understanding that as it is with this satchel, it shall be with life, in the end but memories do we possess.
Karen Quinn 2014