by Mitra Motlagh
Maybe I am just a golden thread
on God’s spindle,
tethered from within.
A year pulled so tight,
I became a frayed edge.
Every autumn, the turning leaves
reminded me of something…
One day, long past
the vitality of the memory,
I saw a glistening string
as I ambled along a lonely street,
and at a coffee shop, in the cracks
of the glass in the morning light,
within the open air of a new apartment
filled only with floating dust.
I followed the trace of the strand:
A golden thread without a loose end.