The Red Thread, Unspooled

This morning, reaching

for the grey wool,

my fingers snagged

on something bright.

A single thread,

startling red,

pulling, long

from the cuff's tight weave.

It wasn't there yesterday.

Now it hangs,

a scarlet vein

on faded grey.

I could cut it, of course,

snapping the small, defiant line.

But I know the feel

of things unravelling,

the way a tiny pull

can undo a whole design.