It is cold. The house has drawn into itself,
feeling abandoned. The light bulb pings when
I switch it off, I wait for the filament to rattle
back into place.

In the dark this path is well worn and hedged
by the early songbirds. There are threads loose
that no longer snag, spiderwebs that do not
stick. I feel their thinness slide over me but I
no longer know the ghosts they are tied to.

I embroider this song through my fingers.
It is fragile, this remembering. Twisting and
knotting, an unseen force of unity or chaos.

.