The Void Between the Threads

In the tight warp, where fiber meets its kin,
the needle does not weave, nor does the thread begin
for what is absent, yet everything holds fast:
the cunning void that cannot be surpassed.
A breath of air, an exact lacuna found,
that sweetly fits the whole design around.

It is in those absences, unseen and light,
that the body finds a way to feel just right,
a clear freshness, the weight it does not bear,
a veil of freedom that remains unclear.
It is not silence, nor deep oblivion’s keep,
but the precise point where all things softly sleep.

Without that nothingness, every cloth would be
a mute block, consumed by heat decree,
without granting a breath, or any line to trace.
It is there its true boundary finds its space,
in the spacious gift, open to the breeze’s flight,
an unexpected architecture of pure insight.