If it were up to me, I’d tell everyone about you.
I’d tell them about you the same way I lay out a wrinkled dress for ironing. I would unfold you and lie you flat and point to the patterns and tell them why each color shines.
If I were alone I’d run my hand softly over your soft fabric. While I thought of the sweet sacrid days in the summer. The scent of your cotton would hail simpler times.
But you are not something I could lie out flat, you are far too much cloth and too wrinkly to iron. Your patterns are too intricate to explain to someone — who doesn’t love you as I have.
Mans prophets and youth pastors have all attempted to speak
and lay out what you say in Thunder.
Much less in Cotton effigies worn on warm days to inspire breath.