Rough Threads

Coarse fibers twist and fray,

dust catching in the splinters of sunlight.

The smell of earth clings—dry, stubborn,

like a promise worn thin.

These ropes once bound hands,

a lifeline rough against skin,

a silent tool forgotten,

waiting in shadows to be used again.

The texture speaks of work,

of hands that earned callouses,

a history woven tight and unyielding.

Holding the hemp, I feel

its grit scrape against the softness

of the day, a tether

between what was and what waits.