The sheets are old but since their quality
is of the best, Egyptian, fine as silk,
they’ve lasted through our years of poverty
without a tear or stain depravity
can leave on lesser sheets as white as milk.
Whatever happened, it was the far side
of lunar planets, riding in the air
like witches hidden on their midnight ride
or owls that dive for rodents or a bride
becoming virginal, each brute affair
of no importance, let it be, our sheets
have been through wringers far more tight and rough,
and still keep color, wrinkle free, defeats
not winding, swaddling, wrinkling into pleats:
our bedding is of quite another stuff.
Wet tears and seeds have washed their weaving count,
entered their warp and woof and left no mark,
although we’ve fought there in the light and dark
with words and limbs and dreams; they are our ark
that sailed and saved us, stranded on a mount
where we plant vineyards, fig trees, under which
we sit and read together, and we sleep
on Shabbat Sabbath afternoons, our garden deep
with memories and future dreams to keep
within our cotton sheets still cool, still rich
as we were once but are more so today;
love is our legacy, we’re and here to stay.
(LRH/8.30.07)
Linda Hepner
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sheets-3/
