Fractured Grip

The crack runs deep, a splintered spine,

a wooden clasp that’s lost its line.

Yet still it grips the faded shirt,

a stubborn hold in wind and dirt.

Snap—a new one breaks and falls,

a brittle sound like broken calls.

But this one holds, though split and worn,

a fractured grip, a will reborn.

Against the gray, it clutches tight,

holding shape, refusing flight.

A silent promise in the chill,

that broken things can hold still.