My Sweater
Like an old ghost, empty
Rumpled, collar and hem askew,
My brown sweater lies
Forgotten on a chair
A sleeve, drooping down,
Throws a shadow like a bruise
On the rug
The cuff rolled back, where
Your small, tender arm poked out
When the sweater
Was full of you
When the day
Was full of you.
It was a gift.
Knew not the Landsdowne cross
How graced his fleece would be.
Knew not the shearer, rough,
How sweet his work would smell
To he who kissed the package held within
My old brown sweater, there,
Forgotten on a chair.
It was a gift.
I cannot wear it now,
The cuffs, rolled back
For your fair and tender arms,
Too short for me, and,
If I unroll them,
You are gone.
