the feel of cotton

I remember the day the doors opened again
and I entered with caution.

I first came here with optimism and a new quilt.
I folded everything into drawers, stored old things away,
and soon found that life wasn’t so easily sorted.

But that day, the paint was like the lavender bush at home,
the windows were draped in white, and the place was new.
A lamp on a table had never made my heart swell that way.

Upstairs, someone fixed a shelf to hold flowers in vases
Window frames and warm welcome adorned the hall
Those four walls surged with evidence of rebuilding.

It was a matter of paint and light bulbs, fabric and tacks
Light like the feel of cotton filled dark halls
We all returned to the wall, each to our work.

So we built the wall. 
And all the wall was joined together to half its height, 
for the people had a mind to work.

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