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Let us see how I dress you
in clothes from my dark wardrobe
hung there with moth balls.
I select you
and pull you from the dark shadow.
Smooth the fabric,
time-stained with memory,
shaking the creases from you
and watch the dry dust motes
cloud the air as I size you up.
Are we so old now?
Slipping my hands in your pockets,
an old ticket,
a foreign penny,
O how I cling to you for warmth,
beloved, yearning for the old intimacy.
Deeply clad in your memory,
How I am dressed by you?
Ah! well – it’s time
Let us clear out this old closet.
"Until the juice ferments a while in the cask,
it isn't wine. If you wish your heart to be bright, you must do a little work." Rumi
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