Whose are the caring hands,
That gently fold the worthwhile moments
Of the open days that fall behind me like calendar pages?
In what linen cupboard are they layered,
Placed in what arrangement?
And are some left untouched, hardly noticed in a corner,
Special things with scalloped edges,
Made for times when company comes calling?
Are the creases still able to be ironed?
Do they resist being laid out in the open?
If lovingly kept do they yet grow old?
Unfold the treasures there.
I seem to have forgotten.
Brush away the dust of years, and
Lift the corners into the air, and
Place them on the bed and table, and someone
Light a candle for night and day, I’m afraid
I have forgotten.

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