Oh if one could see

that the world need not be

so blind.

That words can be softer

than silk—true silk—

and be worth about as much.

The heart spins spools

of these silken threads in the hopes

that we will use them to create a love blanket

For someone:

A mother, a best friend,

the man on the street.

But often, too often,

we harvest the labors of the heart

and clothe ourselves in our own blanket.

Even though we have enough to shelter

every creature, every blade of grass,

every ray of the sun.