This is an old piece revisited and revised.
Inside The Closet
That moment hangs,
locked away
from time’s sepia stain,
keeping a place for itself,
disconnected
from other connective
links, as though wrapped
in transparent cellophane
of dry cleaner’s bag,
unaffected by textures
of all other seasons.
Reaching,
mental fingers brush
against it, inner eye
rushes to still,
caught by clarity
of cut and color.
No matter the years
or number of changes,
for unknowing time,
am wrapped captive
by coarse but clinging
fabric, moving again
within folds of that
tangled perfect fit.
Elizabeth Crawford 7/28/09
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