by Jane Kenyon

All day the blanket snapped and swelled

on the line, roused by a hot spring wind…
From there it witnessed the first sparrow,

early flies lifting their sticky feet,

and a green haze on the south-sloping hills.

Clouds rose over the mountain…At dusk

I took the blanket in, and we slept,
restless, under its fragrant weight.

Photo by haunted snowfort, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED