Are We Like That First Fall Day?
The poet wonders if perhaps all of us have in our closets some old, well-worn sweaters which we hold on to with fervent fondness. A metaphor for cherishing happy times.
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The one where you begin to notice the change,
the crisp smell the air takes on, and you reach
into the back of the closet and find
that old sweater, the fleece one that you
put on each year, and slip
into it with such ease you almost
surprise yourself at how good it still fits, and how
it seems you’ve always worn it, and you’re not
even certain when or where you bought it,
but you know you’re not going to give it away,
and will wear it even as the edges fray, and
the fabric wears thin at the elbows, and
each year, you‘ll take better care of it, patching
and mending, wanting to wear it forever.
