A chest of drawers
stood in the bedroom
where my mother
lay dying.
In drawer-darkness,
fabrics set with deep folds
one layer on another,
arranged to fit
into five rows
just so for years.
Kept for good,
she said.
Cottons, linens, ginghams
mixed with cedar-chip sachets
never shook out in crisp air,
never fashioned by her needle
and thread. Tucked away
like her dreams.