I bend to look at a thread:
it runs ahead too far to see
and the beginning of it, far off behind,
a dot in the endless distance.
This thread worn but not frayed,
copper brown through the long passage of time.
And as if peering down a microscope
I see that it splits into a thousand smaller strands,
some thin but well worn burs whose itch tell a tale;
others robust, full and smooth to the touch, lightly used and ready for any task;
some long, pulled thin but still clinging with what little it might pull;
some stained-changed color to dark red, brown-blood wrought from tears and toils;
some colored the color of love of life;
pale gold and silver reflections of starlight.
One thread in a thousand. A thousand threads in one.