Paisley at Lits
Too shy to look directly,
Too disciplined to touch,
A shopper passed the counter
Where paisley scarves,
of silk and wool,
Lay in a soft display,
random by design:
Teardrop swirls—some muted,
heathered,
faded to the sight—
Soughing in enticing folds:
Impalpable delight.
And yet, head low, in awe
Of beauty, more or less,
Her eye’s edge merely glanced,
Then turned away
from such a peacock’s
fine bouquet,
Heart-stabbed by what
We never can possess
Linda Brown Holt
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