A pile of blankets,
quilts all heaped together in my daughters' favorite colors.
I see them on their beds when they are playing in the yard.
I miss their small bodies suddenly, and their smells.
I long to see their belly buttons, and put my face in their warm necks.
But I don't want the chaos,
the blankets will have to be enough, a vessel for heat and odors,
I run my hands along the edges and over the folds, and inside them.
I expect their hotness and respiration to translate,
But the spaces of the blanket, all the spaces, are cold on my fingertips.
The girls are just outside.