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She wraps herself in night,
a sacred gown, a feathered
comforter of stars.
She wraps herself up tight
on holy ground, a treasured
breeze of sky-blown scarves.
She traps herself in flight
of mottled brown, and hides
her words in jars.
……..She maps herself in ink
……………and pen-pricked
………………………….scars.
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Prompted by Poetic Asides.
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Whimsygizmo's Blog 
De, this poem is a treasure. It is so beautiful. I love the double meaning in “comforter.”
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“on holy ground, a treasured
breeze of sky-blown scarves.
She traps herself in flight
of mottled brown, and hides
her words in jars.”
“pen-pricked scars”
A beautiful poem about a down poet! I suppose every writer feels this way at some point – like they should hide their words in jars and just huddle down.
I know she’s supposed to be “down” but this made me want to huddle down with her – it’s so beautifully described!