Nocturnal Quill House

This piece began with an image I once came across, its origin now lost to me.

I searched for it again, but couldn’t find its maker, only fragments in places I couldn’t trust. It became an image without a name, a pattern without a history.

What remained was not the pattern itself, but the impression it left behind. This afghan is my answer to that memory.

Autumn Leaves

In the twilight of the year,
Maple and oak in gentle accord
Loosen their hold—
Not in sorrow, but in quiet surrender.

Leaves drift in softened tones,
Amber, russet, and fading gold,
Turning slowly through the cooling air
Before settling into the waiting earth.

They gather in hushed abundance,
A quilt of memory beneath bare branches,
Each one a whisper of summer
Folded into rest.

The ground receives them kindly—
Not as loss,
But as return.

And in the hush that follows,
There is warmth still—
Held low,
Like embers beneath the hearth.

I spent some time with the image of this blanket, considering what stitch might best bring out that rustic cabin feel. I settled on the grit stitch, a subtle combination of double crochet and single crochet that creates a nubbly texture without overwhelming the fabric. It felt right when I thought about the textures of autumn: pumpkins, squashes, and gourds, many of which carry that same gently uneven, tactile skin.

Choosing the colors was its own kind of joy. Because, as any yarner knows, one can never have enough yarn. I didn’t aim to match anything exactly, but rather to capture the feeling of autumn. It is, after all, my favorite season. The turning leaves, drifting and swirling through the air, the crispness settling in as temperatures drop, it’s the season of sweatshirts, hot cocoa, apple cider... and, of course, pumpkin pie.

And then there are the greenhouses this time of year. Their riot of color, mums and sunflowers, stacks of pumpkins, bundles of corn stalks, always feels like stepping into a living palette. It’s impossible not to be inspired.

At first glance, this piece may appear to be made of individual blocks. In truth, I used a method that allowed me to avoid the tedious work of joining and sewing in endless ends (a task I happily sidestep whenever possible). By carrying and dropping yarn as needed, I worked the blanket in strips. Toward the end, I began attaching sections as I went, stitching each working row directly to the corresponding section of the blanket.

In the end, it became less about recreating something I had seen, and more about capturing a feeling, one that settles in like autumn itself: warm, textured, and meant to be lingered in.