I watch in fascination

As he folds up the world

 

Neat piles

Resting on his bed

Crisp clouds of fabric

Creamy linens

Midnight pillowcases

Stormy sheets

His thoughts

Sit

 

Maybe I am among those piles

A little folded square

Hard, steely blue

The color of new morning sky

Freshly washed

Timid on the stage of dawn

Clenching her fists

Trying to be brave

 

Maybe he rinses me in water

And dries me in sun

Carefully tucking in my corners

Collecting my pieces

The words that either pour

Or stick in my throat

The ambition that either fuels

Or burns me

The working, the wondering, the lost

Maybe he calms the chaos

In that little square of blue

 

I imagine myself

Sitting among his laundry

Finally resting

Looking around and seeing

The world

It looks different from here

All folded up

It makes sense

All folded up

 

The most obvious realities

Are the hardest to see and hold

But not for him

And I watch in fascination

As he makes sense of the senseless

Leaving neat piles

In his wake