Threadbare Light

The new shirt feels rough,

a synthetic weave.

It brings it back –

that box, that sleeve.

Inside, folded small,

a square of gauze,

yellowed by years,

defying laws

of crisp white linen.

Sunlight found

its way right through,

without a sound.

Just dust motes spinning

in the quiet air.

A simple scrap,

beyond compare.