The wooden pin cracked in my hand

The wooden pin cracked in my hand,

spring loose, metal rusted from rain.

It hung limp on the line,

a tired soldier worn by years.

I clipped a shirt; the pin slipped,

sending fabric fluttering like a startled bird

falling soft to cracked pavement.

I caught it, heart pinched tight,

staring at splintered edges,

tiny cracks telling stories

I wasn’t ready to hear.

How something so small holds on,

only to fail in a sudden slip,

like all the quiet burdens we bear.