The Quiet Loom

The dust motes trace a fractured line across the hardwood floor, a subtle script written by the afternoon sun. We do not read the words, only feel the warmth they leave behind.

Thread by thread the fabric gives, not torn, but gently unwoven by the patient hands of the hours. What was whole becomes a scatter of colors, brighter in their unbinding.

We gather the loose strands, meaning to weave them back, but the loom sits empty in the corner. Better to let the threads catch the light, a suspended constellation in the room.