Like insurance they seem to cover so little
no matter how big or ornate they lay;
dust bunnies hover about, forever waiting
for cleaning rolling sweeping it under.
They collect a bit of the day’s dirt or a boot’s
drips, the remnants of a monsoon or blizzard
soaked into an intricate Mexican print
or straw mat that releases vetiver with the wind.
Like a hot toddy, or twelve, symptoms
glide away, the season’s head cold suddenly
a memory no longer blowing through the litany
of regrets and resentments. Woven covers
bury the accrual of disabled dreams, neglected
love, dog hair, and pine needles.
photo: Santa Fe from Pixabay