I saw an afghan laying there,
Two-toned gold and showing wear.
The afghan waits, it's warmth to give
To one who's ill but wants to live.
You see, this afghan is a friend,
And to it's owner still will tend,
Bringing coziness from cold
With loving warmth in every fold.
The afghan there seems out of place
Without it's owner to embrace,
Hoping it will soon discover
That one for whom it is a cover.
© 2009 Arlene Schwartzkopf