On a hill over by the other side

where a trip of thread lives

there is a twist in the fabric

of this space before me.



Its a little lump of cloth pulled from the weave

rough when my fingers glide over it

that little imperfection

is where I love you.



Sometimes I want to pull at it

just to see what will happen

will the cloth of my world

this cloth of many hues

come apart in a spool of thread

in my hand

or will my fingers carry this lump

of thread away

and my fabric remain smooth untroubled

perfect and whole?



I worry and worry

I pick at it and pull;

never strongly enough

to change the weave of my life

for ever or at all really.