The thin fleece shield

The heater gave up last night—

cold seeped under the doorframe,

a skitter of wind slipping in cracks.

I pulled the old fleece tighter,

fingers trembling beneath its faded thread,

a ragged map of years worn thin.

It’s not warmth, exactly, more like a promise:

this threadbare shield holds the bite at bay,

a soft line drawn between skin and the dark.

The edges fray but it won’t let go—

a quiet comfort, stretched around shivering arms,

a silent thing you don’t pack away.