Counterpane

Nothing lasts, nothing keeps 
its original form. In stories, a room
full of wheat will make you want
to think of gold filaments, wires 
curved cunningly into miniature 
trellises. A body covered with leaves 
could have been a windfall that floated 
out of the open sky. Doesn't it look
familiar ? Across a quilt there are
thousands of stitches. How can each 
one of them, that tiny, anchor the weight 
of so many nights of sleep?