The Breath of the Fold

The acute angle, memory of hot iron,
draws an intent order upon the fabric.
Fiber against fiber, a quiet assault
on a distant chaos, still dormant.
The perfect square, a pause in time,
a promise of rest, of an unread day.

But every tension has a heart that beats slow,
and the cotton remembers, with subtle record,
its fragile beginning, its natural intent
to yield to the air, to the force that marks
every discreet weight, every slight torment
that curves the horizon of a taut fold.

Thus the package of cloth, in its calm lying,
loses edge by edge, a veil at a time.
It is not a sudden collapse, but a sweet fading,
a yielding form that falls asleep and turns
to the primary flow, to its soft will,
before new hands lift it into fold.