The blanket does not hold a child,
But a matured pattern
Of further possibilities.
It’s wool worn, patched,
Ripples and changes.

Now the blanket blows out the stars,
The wind rushes to echo,
To send a shiver of laughter.
Each fiber breathes, shimmers,
Catching the loose sound.

Fresh dew fills the blankets warm hair,
So blonde it shines through water,
To reflect lights scattered above.
Laughter shatters, fractures,
Skipping to the sky,