I’m weaving a blanket
with fabric the shade of green
that only midnight knows
in borrowed moments
between moonlight and rainforest.
Delicate strands of cypress
interwoven subtly in scattered places
will remind me later of the brevity of potential
and to accept that light always comes with shadows.
It — not I — will determine when it is finished.
Though there are no expectations,
the hope that it will be large enough
to wrap myself in on cold nights
Like a thousand sighs of contentment
strung together in transience
and permanently marked on the heart,
I wish to one day run my fingers
over its soft and familiar feel
while melting into its warmth
and remembering the tenderness
with which it was made.