The doorway effect

My eyelids are a door
leading from night to day,
and just like all doorways,
short-term memory stays behind.

My lost dreams are either too strange
or too mundane to stick around.
But I reach back for them.
Come with me, I beckon.

Follow me to my garden
so I can take your cuttings
and share your fruit around the breakfast table.

Let me shear your yarn,
dye, fold and sort you,
and I will wear you again.

Settle your home in me
instead of checking out
from the darkened motel
you take me for.