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Blanket Baby
Blanket of Dreams
The past and future hangs between these barely threaded lines.
Clinging to forgotten traces, all hopes and dreams
entwined.
Examining the blanket, all raggedy and tattery, you see
the glistening
wisps of hair intertwined within its worn and threaded fibers.
Are
these strands from yesterday's brushings or are they from a decade or so ago?
Some of them are straight, others gently swirling like curly fries.
Do fingerprints invisibly cover every inch of this cloth?
These originally sewn images have long-since
deteriorated,
leaving but hints of the art and the craft that was.
Perhaps this
is the perfect object of some girl's sewing fancy.
Most of it now has heeded
gravity's relentless call and
has faltered into time's ageless plan of
obsolescence.
No longer carried from room to room, it is now part of
the room.
The very air you breathe, the immediate universe. This once inanimate
fabric
now breathes with a life of its own. Memories hang within its threadbare
weavings,
held together solely by unimagined hours of comfort and security,
dreams and desires.
With its scent upon your face, the curse-sed storm
is cured.
Your lonesome heart comes settled now, your tears of angst absorbed.
Careful now, how you handle this blanket, for it is
fragile.
Yet, as you can see and feel, it is quite resilient too.
A life rests in your perfect hands, your past and
futures lie.
Do not drag it on the dingy-gritty, do not snap it to the flagging
sky.
Or toss it in some cobweb corners.
Place it gently into hands that sleep, changing dreams
of naught to ought.
Your friends and neighbors gathered here, you dogs and cats,
your moms and dads,
and grammas, grandpas sure. You have got the whole world at
your
fingertips, with every breath you take and every walk you make.
You rise and dress, leaving that old, musty thing
tucked safely away where you slept.
A true friend-in-waiting. A rosary. Dream
lines. Worry beads.
A litany of life and love and lives ready to be played-out like some
archived
recording-- over and over, time after time-- whenever your fledgling
heart desires.
Your symphony untied.
This, your blanket of dreams, is woven from your vaporous
threads of life.
The past and future hangs between these barely threaded lines.
Clinging to forgotten traces, all hopes and dreams
entwined.
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