Twas the night before Christmas,
And the quilts were not made,
The threads were all tangled, the cookies delayed.
The stockings 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.
But a bus full of quilters with all of their gear.
They went straight to work with just a few mutters,
Sorting and stitching and brandishing cutters.
The patterns emerged from all of the clutter,
Like magic the fabrics arranged in a flutter.
Log Cabins, Lone Stars, Flying Geese and Bear Tracks,
Each quilt was a beauty—even the backs!
The cookies were baking, the stockings were sewed.
Their work was all done, so they folded their frames,
And packed up their needles, without giving their names.
They boarded the bus and checked the next address,
More quilts to be made, another quilter in distress.
“Happy quilting to all, and to all a good night.”