The Wandering Thread on the Carpet

A small escape of weave, faded blue,
or maybe a bright red, escaped from a distracted hem,
it lies silent, its journey having passed,
on a field of wool, where the step is sworn.

It knows no rush for complex weaves,
nor the duty of a stitch precise;
only the calm of being there, in velvet recesses,
an ephemeral guise.

Testimonial to a distant gesture,
of a needle that ran, of patient fingers,
it keeps intact a light and arcane scent,
subtle echo of weaves and the present.