A Different Kind Of Speaking

When it’s cold inside and out
in the fragile moments of the morning
I wrap myself in velvet
skin, softer than my own
and catch newborn thoughts before
they cry. I must take it off to labor
in the coarse duties of the day, and
if I forget the thickened sweetness
of the sunrise, I need only return
to that barn door red, and the thin
white lines which open wide
and fold me in.