Archival

I need the room for wool and thick-knit cotton,

but here is the silk I’ve mostly forgotten.

A floral print from a summer long dead,

when I had fewer worries inside of my head.

I pulled on the denim, a thrift-store find,

but my body has changed its stubborn mind.

The silver button is gasping for air,

straining the threads that are starting to tear.

The buttonhole frays like a nervous white string,

while I wait for the comfort the seasons should bring.

I’ll fold it back down in the dark of the wood,

tucked under socks like it's doing some good.