Small Repairs

The tin, cold metal against my thumb,

rattles its small history.

A button gone, where it came from,

a tiny, sudden vacancy.

Grandma's thimble, worn and deep,

still bears the shape of her old hand.

A red thread, from some sleeping heap,

pulled out, across this quiet land

of fabric. The needle, fine and sharp,

a silver whisper through the weave.

A quiet tune, a little harp

of mending, what I can retrieve.

One small break, then another finds

its way to mind, a fraying edge.

My fingers trace the intricate binds,

a small repair, a silent pledge.