Blankets

This is silly, but blankets need me.  They don't seem to care if it's winter or summer.  They don't mind sweats or shorts, perspiration or goose bumps, awake or asleep, happy or sad or really sad.  Blankets seem to need me.  They find me.  In rockers and recliners and reading rooms. 

And when they do, they pile up like a... pile of covered fluffy feathers.  A mound of lumpy or floaty... mound. 

Not long ago I threw blankets off, scorning their added heat to my already full-force furnace.  I threw them atop a husband who they need just as much as me.  They were happy to land on him.

Now they need me twice as much.  For there are twice as many that need me.  Twice as much cozy and comfort and care.  Twice as much outside and inside warmth.  Twice as much covering, enveloping, sheltering.  

Blankets must need me.  They just need to keep me wrapped and secure and held.  And I need them.