Pulled it from the cedar chest

Pulled it from the cedar chest,

a winter ghost.

And there, on the cuff,

a single dark thread,

longer than it should be,

a fine line pulled from the weave.

It caught the light

like something important,

a surveyor’s string

marking where the edge began to give.

Not a tear, not a hole,

just an extra length,

a loose end that could

if you let it,

undo the whole sleeve.

Or more.