Threads of Time

In the laundromat, the hum is rhythmic,

a dance of colors spinning,

dried hopes tossed with sheets of white,

I find an old quarter, cold in my palm,

forgotten time hidden in the lint trap,

it strikes me, that jarring moment—

an echo of yesterday folded, pressed

in the scents of bleach and fabric softener.

A pale blue sock lost among the whites,

a time capsule of forgotten moments,

each spin a story,

each cycle a promise made,

yet here, swirling,

I’m still searching for something more.