Quilt

My memory is but a quilt in the wind,
Losing it's fibers and unraveling into nothing.
A long ball of string collects at my base,
Yet I know not how it got there.

My memory is fleeting,
Leaving for greener shores.

A person will come along,
Whispers the fibers.
He will mend you back to your glory,
And you'll have a collection of new colors to show.