Flames of sunlight trembled in her palmsâ
a warmth almost too bright, too alive to bear,
yet she held it longer, still entwining it tighter
as if love itself could be made and rewoven into
the pieceâs worn thin bands, becoming new.
But the world unraveled it, again and again,
yet her fingersâaching, rawâkept spinning.
The golden twine fell through her grasp,
a knot untied in silence, by unseen ...
