Drape

At the end of a day,
I take off my memories
of the bright noon clouds
and drape them
across the chair
beside my bed.
I hope the joy of them
will hang in the air around me
while I sleep.
I unbutton my thoughts
of the creek rambling by
with its shadows and shine,
how it carried the perfume
it found upstream last week
from that wild gypsy rose
on the mountainside.
I remember
how the scent of it
reached my nose
with a lovely blend
of crushed petals
and tender rain tears.

I slip off that moment
when I couldn't look up
and stare directly
at the sun, but the sun
was so kind; it gazed up at me,
instead, from its mirror
in the pond.
With sleepy eyes, I realize
the vivid memory
of that brilliant sky
has left finger prints,
like wet paint, on
everything I've touched.
Maybe I shouldn't
have undressed these thoughts,
tossed them so carelessly
from my mind?
Perhaps I'll find myself
waking from sleep,
reaching in the dark,
putting them back on.
I'll cradle the fabric of them
against my chest, my
sky-stained fingers folded,
blue and vibrant,
into my palms.


© Sherri Brannon