The Weave

The basket, pulled from out the back,

its dry strands catch my sleeve.

A smell of dust, a linen track,

a history I believe.

Each brittle thread, so closely bound,

a humble, sturdy hold.

What heavy loads has it unbound?

What stories left untold?

It creaks a bit, a tired sigh,

when lifted to the light.

Through gaps, the shadows softly lie,

a fading, woven sight.

No longer strong, no longer new,

just fibers, worn and gray.

It waits, a ghost, still holding true,

for laundry, come what may.

But just its touch, its dry embrace,

recalls a slower time.

A quiet, unassuming space.

A texture, past its prime.