Unraveling

That dusty stall, a cluttered heap,

Where yesterday decays so slow.

A wicker basket, buried deep

In things that time refused to know.

It smelled of dried reeds, sharp and dry,

A scent that snagged me, pulled me back.

The weave was loose beneath the sky

Of canvas covers, fading black.

A single strand, so thin and frayed,

Like a brittle thought, about to break.

A picnic planned, a promise made,

For goodness, for goodness sake.

It’s just a basket, old and worn,

But something feels torn.