My daughter shared a poem "The Thread" with me several years ago, handwritten on a light pink piece of cardstock. I set it up my desk, on one side by the calendar and then the other by the pencils. I stick it in books I'm reading so I will come across it at random. This week I found it in the back of my day planner. I have read it many times over the years, and each time the meaning I find reflects what is happening in my life at that moment. Today the idea of the thread as grief occurred to me. The loose thread is a garment of grief that has unraveled and is slowly taking new shape as something different. A thought to ponder....
Something is very gently,
invisibly, silently,
pulling at me-a thread
or net of threads
finer than cobweb and as
elastic. I haven’t tried
the strength of it. No barbed hook
pierced and tore me. Was it
not long ago this thread
began to draw me? Or
way back? Was I
born with its knot about my
neck, a bridle? Not fear
but a stirring
of wonder makes me
catch my breath when I feel
the tug of it when I thought
it had loosened itself and gone.
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