The Last Anchoring

A single thread, weary of its weave,
unravels from the worn-out margin.
It hangs, a tenacious memory of flame,
a new horizon, unpainted.
It defies every distracted caress,
every touch that seeks to reabsorb it,
a tiny sail no longer drawn
from the vast sea from which to leave.

It does not sway in wind, nor yield to grasp,
but watches the world from its slender bridge.
A dancing shadow, a silent contest,
on a backdrop of fabric that was once a height.
It feels time slipping by, every breath
of the passing day, light and invisible,
its small drama, a mute sigh,
awaited, inevitable, yet still rebellious.

Until a day, with grace or with fury,
the bond breaks free, the ultimate prison.
Falling free, without any more rage,
a little triumph, the final reason.
There remains only a void, a tiny sign,
on the eternal garment that does not recall it.
But in that moment, perhaps, a design
was completed, stronger than any of its cords.