A strand of hair, silvered, taut
A bow string, harp string, gut singing
A spider’s net, a worm’s cocoon
looping white over the branch
A branch catching the loose strands
from the braid with a wincing pull —
or the leggy seamstress’ work
ragged as a bird blunders through
and the fly escapes. The silk worm
robbed of its warm coat to make ours.
The bowstring wears, the harp string snaps
from the pressure of the song.
And us, then. Your hair gone gray
under my telling fingers —
slender, fragile, strong as iron —
but only if we are lucky