My husband bought me this lovely robe
for Christmas; he knows me so well;
it could be behind glass as a Monet
painting or exhibited with artisan fabrics
at a museum; it is wearable poetry.
It is gently textured like a canvas
and has this perfect sheen in the piping,
a bright reminder of new spring,
the color of ripened limes.
There are other shades of green,
sage, olive, pear, emerald,
in the stems and leaves holding
splatters of pink, rose and magenta;
from afar those splashes form
the most beautiful blooms, a whole
field of wild flowers enfold my arms
and drape down my back,
and I am wrapped in art.
It is simply divine.
I pull it out tonight wondering why
I don’t wear it more often —
What on earth am I saving it for?
So I slip it on and become covered
in love, happily adorned.
—C.L. Fisher, June 2020
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