Rough Thread

Cracked crate, splintered and dry,

stalks tied tight in rough twine,

the sharpness of hemp rough against skin,

a scratchy memory folded inside.

I ran fingers over the frayed ends,

a brush of dry grass, bitter and strange,

something awkward tangled in the stalks—

a feeling caught between itch and comfort.

The market smells of bread and damp earth,

a quiet morning crowd shifting past,

and I stand holding this fragile bundle,

roots and roughness wrapped in faded green.

Hemp—unpolished, unclean,

a thread pulled tight between past and present,

a scratch that lingers long after touch.