Translucent, stippled
in burnt umber and sienna,
hand rolled hem never ironed,
never worn or always cared for.

I wear you, uncaring,
it seems,
in a corner, a crusty brown stain
rubs crisply between fingers
creased beyond
the folds I received it in.

It took me a long time to begin
wearing you
from when you waved us goodbye
after a holiday when I remember
we picked a name for your great-granddaughter.

It looks like I don’t care
but the scarf is something I wear
and to cheer her up,
you play peekaboo and make her laugh,
to entertain and learn,
you’re a snake in a cavern –

here you are, once more, warm.