Let us start with a piece of linen
Crisp, white, laundered
Its value lies in golden tendrils
simultaneously probing all
its geometric possibilities:

A cotton skirt, twirling, unfurling
on late April grass,
stretching itself just enough
to graze fingertips.
Making arms around a young groom
Snuggling closer under the heavy suit.
A child's plaything--smiling, pretending,
waiting.
Or maybe it's just this tattered sheet
the only thing between me and the bleak
pitter patter
drumming sonic shapes
on my windowsill