Fable of the Quilt Maker

He made quilts.
Not out of cloth.
Of a patchwork,
Of sung things and
Colored.

They were things to behold.
Stitched together with his own stitching
Hands.
As fine as Gabriel, 
Resplendent, 
Would have us have.

And share among his folks.
Saying this is it O.

He gave them out, one by one,
To whosoever he found.
And who could take them.
And who knew
What things they were made of.

And only if they could find him, too.