Fiber

The clouds are the color of a wet slate roof

and the wind is starting to kick the dust.

I need the tarp to hold, to be the proof

that something in this yard is worth our trust.

The hemp is old and it bites at my palm,

leaving behind a dry, itchy trail.

I pull it tight to keep the woodpile calm

before the sky turns into a sheet of hail.

But there’s a fuzzy split near the rusted hook,

the cord is unspooling, becoming a ghost.

I can see the tension in the way it took

the strain, and where it’s going to fail the most.