Purple Pile

In the attic box, a forgotten find,

a small, deep swatch, a purple blur.

It brought a memory to my mind,

of softer times, a gentle purr.

The nap, so worn, beneath my thumb,

a dress I loved, from long ago.

It felt like comfort, numb and dumb,

a quiet, faded, tender show.

This rough-edged life, it cuts and scrapes,

no soft pile left, no plush relief.

Just this small square, in gentle shapes,

a ghost of luxury, of sweet belief.