Twas the night before Christmas,
And the quilts were not made.
The threads were all tangled, the cookies delayed.
The stocking weren't hung, the pantry was bare.
The poor weary Quilter, was tearing her hair.
Stacks of fat quarters, tipped over in streams.
Visions of Log Cabins, had turned into dreams.
4 comments:
Hi Carole, love the poem. I bet you're sewing up a storm. Hope you're well and sewing to your heart's content.
LOL! That poor woman!
oh goodness that is so YOU, thanks for sharing, hugs
This is perfect for you Carole! ~Diane
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