THREADS

 

Threads 

Hold your own,

like a mountain cradling the sky in its granite arms,

know your name,

etched in the roots of ancient trees, their bark rough with wisdom,

and go your own way,

a river carving its path through stone, relentless and shimmering.

Hold your own,

know your name,

and go your own way—

and everything, everything will be fine,

like the sun spilling gold over the horizon’s edge.

Everything.  

Bridge

Are the details in the fabric

the knots that twist your stomach like gnarled roots,

are the things that make you panic

just the frayed edges of a worn-out thread, unraveling in the wind?

Are your thoughts results of static cling,

clinging like burrs to your skin, sharp and unyielding?

Are the things that make you blow

just the wind howling through a hollow reed, mournful and wild?

Hell, no reason, go on and scream—

if you’re shocked, it’s just the fault

of a loom gone wild,

spinning chaos instead of cloth,

its threads tangled like a storm-tossed sea.  

Everything will be fine,

like the calm after the storm, when the air smells of rain-soaked earth,

everything in no time at all,

like the first green shoot breaking through frost.

Everything.

Hold your own,

know your name,

go your own way.

Hold your own (Are the details in the fabric, knots in your gut),

know your name (Are the things that make you panic, threads fraying thin),

go your own way (Are your thoughts burrs, clinging tight?).

Hold your own (Are the details in the fabric, twisting your path),

know your name (Are the things that make you panic, echoes in the wind),

go your own way (Is it nature’s wild weave, untamed and free?).

Hold your own (Are the things that make you blow, reeds in the gale),

know your name (Hell, no reason, scream into the night),