Sheet

I have a sheet; it's square - six feet.
It's kinda smart, but not too neat.
When at its best, 'twas freshly pressed,
Now, in its wrinkles hides a treat.

It's on the ground, where I am found;
It forms a membrane, all around,
So I won't touch - yet, still, sense much
Of what consists my covered mound.

Though time has made the way it's laid
Get bunched and ridged, it yet has stayed
A truthful sheath to what's beneath:
The rocks and bumps with which I've played.

The way I see, my memory,
And faults, are all this sheet to me;
This wrinkled form became my norm,
The sense with which, the world, I see.