Of Brussels — it was not —

Of Brussels — it was not —
Of Kidderminster? Nay —
The Winds did buy it of the Woods —
They — sold it unto me

It was a gentle price —
The poorest — could afford —
It was within the frugal purse
Of Beggar — or of Bird —

Of small and spicy Yards —
In hue — a mellow Dun —
Of Sunshine — and of Sere — Composed —
But, principally — of Sun —

The Wind — unrolled it fast —
And spread it on the Ground —
Upholsterer of the Pines — is He —
Upholsterer — of the Pond —
                                                            F510 (1863)  J602

In the previous poem Dickinson portrays a cloud as fabric: first a sheet and then a sumptuous robe. In this charming poem she has the wind unrolling a carpet on the forest floor. He ruffles the pond with his breath and its leaves and reflections make a lovely carpet, too.
 

Brussels carpet, 1870, Sen. Washburne
home, Illinois, by John Burrows

As the poem begins, the narrator is looking at some kind of carpet and thinking about its origin. Nope, not Brussels, she thinks. Kidderminster? No way. Both of these locations were famed for their carpets in Dickinson's time and are still famed today. Kidderminster carpets are found in the poshest and trendiest places in the world. Brussels craftsmen, known for their wool carpets, introduced the machined uncut-loop pile. Dickinson would probably have seen at least one American-made Brussels carpet on someone's floor in Amherst.
       The narrator's carpet comes from the woods, bought and carried by the winds who sold it to her. The price, fortunately, was so "gentle" that even a beggar or bird could afford it. Ah, generous wind to so please the impoverished bird and beggar.
What did this carpet look like? This is the puzzle part of the poem. To begin with, its "Yards" (a measurement unit common to fabric and carpets) are "small and spicy." I take that to mean there is something small in or about the pattern and that the carpet has a spicy fragrance. Its primary color is a dull brown, and the rug is made of dry earth or leaf litter and sunshine, "But, principally – of Sun."
       The wind unrolled this carpet fast, and we are to imagine a big gust swirling leaves or pine needles across the ground, upholstering the forest floor. Dickinson's titles of "Upholsterer of the Pines" and "Upholsterer – of the Pond" are delightfully droll. And face it, "Upholsterer" is a great word for a poem – it has a satisfying fullness with its strong emphasis on the second syllable and its trailing off into "erer" as if in a mumble. It also has a quasi pretentiousness. "Carpet layer" just doesn't plump the mouth.
      

Joe Manomet: Pine needle carpet, Massachusetts

Since Dickinson provides us with the type of forest, pine, I think we are meant to envision a carpet of sun-dappled pine needles. I grew up in pine country and remember vividly both their scent and the soft sound of needles falling through the trees.