Woven Decay

Dust motes swam in the attic light.

I found the hamper, grey and old,

its woven reeds gone brittle, tight

with stories left untold.

A loose strand snagged my sleeve,

a dark knot where the weaving frayed.

It felt like something I believe

would slowly be unmade.

The straw was brittle, dry.

Each fiber a held breath,

waiting for the final death,

under a careless sky.

It felt like everything I own.