There is that other wrapped-up,
unwrapped at dawn illusive presence.
Admiring it ever so delicately.
Slipping it on for an enveloping day;
a printing, ginger lily day,
that it's nice to sit by, be in
this cast iron weight of its rooted foundation.
Of charged up love trooping on in,
that it is good for all those thrown in feelings
of an outcast hour,
that sometimes need sorting.
That sometimes need structuring.
That what you froze in memory
captured a still-life in thought and deed,
in these rolled-up desires of creation.
That it turns out so right on the mark.
Your thermostat to a comfort
of cloud high peace,
and blanket-warm shoulders
a freshness to carry any wayward thought back
to the harmony of this little world.
Set on the landmark of its safeness,
of spiritual import scattering
a seasoning to the start of importance, again.
As the temperature of time
on all of its bodily heart functions.
As everything gets internalized, somehow.
And the gauge of this competency
grants a wisdom to the night tuckers of the galaxy.