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