.
Poetry is the well-worn sleeve
where she displays her heart.
Somebody said
the gods wear paisley,
angels dip their toes
in velvet pleats,
but she likes best
a weave of silk
with lace crochet
around the edge.
Look closely
at the points of light
between the threads,
you’ll see his face
and maybe even read his name
embroidered coyly
near her wrist.
Day after day
she sews anew
the fragile seam
that joins two dreams
all neatly hemmed
and pressed –
or so it seems.
.
© 2013, 2016 Betty Hayes Albright
.
(a re-post, revised)