A writer’s poem for her blankie

You’re my big swathe of cuddle,

what I missed as a babe.

You’ve cossetted me through

the cool and the macabre.

When the snow’s outside

you’re an obvious choice.

You’re generous, holding,

you’re the thing I rejoice.

But you transcend all seasons

especially in spring.

You let me feel safe

when my words are growing.

How could I write

so much brave raw stuff

without my cuddly cocoon

and knowing I am enough.

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