Live With New Clothes
Take threads from the flannel shirt he wore,
The plaid one you remember, the favorite.
It has anemone-edged holes which let in a cold draft,
Its red and grey pattern too faded for beauty.
Keep the velvety pieces of solid weave,
With a trace of fragrance of flesh, musk and oily hair.
Search the earth for strands of jeweled color,
Threads of carbon strength and unvanishing length.
Collect them egg-like, carefully and separately:
To keep them from rashfully tangling,
Losing distinction to your eye or usefulness.
Weave them mindfully together with the old patches.
Sew even seams between yours and his.
Cautiously line up edges without ridges,
For a whisper-smooth, sigh-soft wrap,
Barely felt at all,
But warm, so warm
That cold cannot enter.
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(today's post is for Mona, I wrote this last April for a friend who lost her husband in an accident a year ago)
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