Preface to the Poem
At night, I excommunicate the mugginess in my room. Placing a fan on a chair, I blow the air across my bed toward a cracked window. This soothes me into sleep. But as the night grows late, or as the morning grows early, the cooling becomes chill and the soothing becomes shiver.
And Ye Clothed Me
In my dream,
after a long day
by the highway side,
nostalgia pulled me heartstrings-first
to a great and spacious LDS Institute.
Rumor had prophesied a special fireside;
even aging singles would not be forsaken.
Yet, once inside…
so many rooms held
so many meetings.
I was unfamiliar—
a stranger there
wandering the building,
growing cold despite the bright glow
above and the soft carpet below.
Shivering in the overflow, I discovered
I was naked, but none dared confront.
I slumped on the carpet,
against a clean back wall,
shivering and hoping
I’d found the right place.
All others avoided
my telestial skin,
as the fireside began; I crumpled shaking,
encircled in the icy robe of my shame.
Why had I not been shocked to waking
by this dream’s blizzard of disgrace?
I had been noticed.
A front-row single,
valiant in her faith,
stood and pulled
the pristine cloth
from the sacrament table.
She passed it billowing cloud-like, over
the chapel made crystal by eyes averting,
to where I huddled below an exit sign.
The cloth settled soft and exquisite,
felt of compassion,
knit of relief,
warming the sufferer up.
I started to cry,
as brothers and sisters
moved closer by.
Applause erupted in the sacrament room,
for the good Samaritan; we felt and knew
she’d sent the cloth not to cover my abashment
but to warm me. Cheered by her compassion,
I ceased to fear
the cold walk home,
for she clothed me.
Poet’s Note:
Photo by Maximilian Frank on Pexels.com
Wheat & Tares 
Nice. I don’t always feel compelled to comment on your poems as they don’t often end with an explicit or implied, “comments?”
Thanks, Happy Hubby. I have thought some about the use of questions at the end, but haven’t felt a strong impulse yet as poetry is intentionally subjective. Initially I’ve been curious to get feedback without leading readers in a specific direction. But comments are definitely welcome.
Maybe you should add at the end, “comments are welcome.”
I confess, poetry is not my cup of (herbal) tea, but I appreciate the effort you do each week. I’m not sure what to say after your poems either.
Ahh, the alternate login. We need more poetry. Consider this my thumbs up, didn’t have anything else to say, post.
That’s a good suggestion Mormon Heretic. Thank you. I may use it. My preferred cup of herbal tea tends to be camomile by the way.
I find myself gravitating to a school of thought that reading poetry should be less about deciphering the poet’s meaning or intent. Rather, it should be more about exploring your own reactions whatever they may be. I see that as giving readers a pretty wide latitude in terms of sharing reactions, without needing to have uncovered a specific meaning I had in mind. Thanks again for your comment.
Last week at a Frisbee game one of the players sprained his ankle. It started to swell, and no one had a bandage to wrap it in. I volunteered my white t-shirt, knowing I still had a garment on underneath. As I folded my shirt and bound it around his ankle, I noticed the familiar markings and realized I had inadvertently worn two garment tops that day. A purist may have considered it sacrilege to use holy underwear for that purpose, but my friend was in need. Thanks for the reminder that the icons and relics of religion are meant for the use of man, not the other way around.
Hauntingly beautiful and challenging at the same time. You moved me and unsettled I must find comfort in an unfamiliar repose.