It is an old, familiar blanket.
One that has wrapped itself in the arms of many.
One that swaddled my fears.
And, has fed my hunger.
Still there are times in which it seems less dear.
Pity I cannot provide my shelter…
Made of the finest soft cotton.
Indulge my blanket with fantasy’s of never letting go.
Pity I cannot provide my shelter solemn seeds in which to sow.