The Needle's Hesitation

The needle, slender point of steel,
knows its fate: to pierce, to bind.
A subtle wisdom sleeps within the thread
of silent journeys, things to find.
But before the pattern takes its hold,
before its will begins to bloom,
an uncertain pause, a flicker told
of silence in the fabric’s gloom.

It is suspended time, a current flow
that holds back the leap, a gentle tremor
between intent and being here below,
like doubt that through the air does shimmer.
The cloth awaits, an untouched expanse,
a white or dark promise of its way,
and the needle, sensing circumstance,
measures the border, the unknown day.

Then, a gesture, a hand, a precise
will that dissolves all thought’s design;
the blade defeats the whole defense so nice,
and the thread follows, swift and divine.
No more waiting, but a race begun, no veil,
only the song of the stitch that lives and dies
to weave a meaning, on the gentle gale
of an ancient task, of love reprise.