Silken Calculus

The weaver drafts in silver ink, a radial map of hunger and wait, anchored to the rough skin of the pine by nothing more than intent and spit.

Each bead of rain is a heavy lens, magnifying the tension of the thread, until the whole architecture bows under the weight of a liquid sky.

It is a geometry of ghosts, shimmering between the needles, waiting for the sun to burn the evidence and turn the math back into air.