Folded

Photo credit: Kier in Sight Archives, Unsplash

On Tuesday,
I found out
I was
holding
a poem.

This time,
Not as a
rancorous
secret,

But as a cat
in a
Bosomy
cradle
of downy
blankets.

Handwritten,
on scented
paper,
Housed,
petal-like
and velvety
In its bending.

Not typed
furiously
into a
Broken-
backed
iPhone.

Not
wrinkled
and tossed
Across the room,
but creased,
With intention.

And for that
reason only,
I care
about today.
Its cleavage,
the beaming lamplight,
& morning-fullness,
Lacking glare.

And
Sometimes
for letting me
see substance
that is folded
instead of
cracked.

© Maggie McCombs 2024. All Rights Reserved.