Wood and linens

The smell of last week's breeze still lies heavy on the sheets
From hanging on the line in the back yard
And the scent of furniture polish is thick perfume
In the old middle bedroom upstairs.
Far in time and distance, I lie separated
From the place that was, that brought me such comfort
But I am there, in my memory, feeling the clean scratch
Of those sheets on my legs and across my chest.

Morning will come soon with the climbing of the sun into the sky
And the past will tuck smartly in some cubbyhole in my mind,
While I press diligently towards tomorrow
To conquer the day at hand, relying on the unseen support
From the days that lie comfortably behind me.

Yet, what is more real: the living of the day
In which I now exist and breathe and stumble towards the next
Or the caress of those sheets on that well-oiled middle bed,
Still scratching my skin and rising fragrantly up through my nostrils?