The Blanket

on

Mother, loving, smoothes my new, soft face’s skin.
White threads do try to quietly caress
This image of a heaven’s peaceful hymn,
This tiny picture of sweet innocence.

Croups and coughs caught within the quiet folds
Fire and ice trace fingertips on my head,
Covered by cords thankful they can’t catch colds.
I gather them about, soaking their spread.

We trade shy smiles across these whispering bands,
Soft, sweet breaths, laughing, greet the still, small air.
Who can know when the release of our hands
Will finally free the warm threads we bear?

Wears, tears, and scarring cares have long since passed
And come again, despite my dreaded fears.
Mother tells me that none of them will last,
And hands me this soft sheet to catch my tears.

Now it perches with arms folded neatly,
Remembering its lives on couch and bed.
Nothing ever covered so completely,
Nor reminded me so much of where I’ve tread.

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