This Sweater by Patricia L. Hamilton

You think I shouldn’t wear it?
Even if it’s my favorite?
Well, maybe so.

But its pink is the delicate hue
of plum blossoms fluttering
in the breeze

after an endless season
of sullen gray clouds
and humorless rain,

its intricate pattern the wisdom
patient fingers acquired
by a fireside

and passed down from daughter
to daughter like a necklace
of polished pearls,

its yarn substantial but soft,
breathable, giving
when I move.

By the way, what makes you
think I was created
for your gaze?