Flying Geese in Orbit

—for Aurora

Sixteen colors of nanofiber—
unraveled from ancient photon sails
and spooled into thread.

Cluttered worktable. Plasma cutter.
Diamond-tipped needles.
Three stubborn women—and a wish.

We are not meant to be here,
skipping our sleep allotment for you,
practicing the old disorder.

Textiles now are born whole:
garment-shaped, self-healing,
encoded to hold us at 37 degrees.

We cut only what we can claim—
torn trousers from a shuttle crash,
a dress scorched by solar flare,

swatches surrendered from
our own ration of clothing.
We sort the scraps: blue from red.

The old patterns live again—
named in a place where warmth
meant more than homeostasis.

Evening Star for beauty.
Trumpet Vine for grace and song.
Log Cabin to keep you until morning.

A shallow seam. A patch off-square.
Each deviation, a small rebellion.
Each stitch, a prayer to entropy.

Only after the binding is folded,
stitched, and pressed do we speak
our blessings, goddaughter—

May you never be cold, child.
This is a blanket for belonging.
We give you what the world has lost:

something that, someday, will fray.