The Green Weight

The green wool, mothballed, pulled from the back.

It's scratchy, not soft like some other fleece.

But it has a weight, a density I lack

in the quiet moments when I need release.

There's a burn hole, small and dark,

from a forgotten night, years away.

A faint smell of ash, a slight, old mark,

but it still holds the cold at bay.

It’s not for show, this heavy friend.

Just a fact against the winter chill.

Some comfort you can't quite transcend.

My arms around it, holding still.