Spun fine into thread. In beds. Under heads. Looming white, like a moonlight stead. Make your pick, before the seed-wind spreads. Fibrous from nature. Polyester it dreads.

On your head I often sit, a crown of sorts, a perfect fit. Shield from sun or rain I might, or simply add a touch of delight.

Silent sentinels that guard against the sun's relentless gaze, their slats whisper secrets of shadow and light, dancing to the rhythm of the wandering breeze.

I cry everyday To clean grime away I can be hot or cold But don't leave me on or there will be mold

Soft embrace unseen, Tiny threads in disarray, What comforts the peach?