Of Fabric and Time
Your fingers rise, involuntarily,
compelled to touch,
to feel the soft cotton cool against your fingers.
Your eyes take in the colors, soft, muted,
the patterns something from another era.
Your heart calms looking at the light,
yellow and golden, the color of the early morning sun.
For a moment you are not here.
You are not now. Your cares disappear
as you become lost in the memories of times you never lived,
but somehow, lives in you.
About this poem.
I am one of those people who can’t keep his hands off things. Feeling them is part of how I connect with things. That fact never made me popular in antique shops and department stores.
I am also one of those people who read classics as a small kid, so part of me lived in a past I never actually experienced. And yet, it was, and it, real to me.