I pull on this ancient thread
copper brown with the slow passage of time,
and it frays into a thousand smaller more intimate strands:
some thin but well-worn, burs that itch but help tell the tale;
others robust and strong, full and smooth to the touch, unused but nevertheless ready for their task;
some long, pulled thinner still but clinging with what little might pull;
some stained with blood, stained-changed color to dark red, brown-blood from iron wrought from tears and toils;
some colored the color of love of life of the sun; pale gold and silver glittering reflections of starlight.
One thread is a thousand. A thousand threads is one.