The sun illumined the thread.

A silver shimmer just so,
I brushed it away.

Not alone in its strength could it hold
tension, sorrow. The consternation.

It was what was hidden. Under shadows,
behind branches, a weaving so complete nothing
could break its grasp of the unaware taken by surprise.

One stilt thread interlaced within others,
perfectly patterned, quietly savage.
Its architect patiently meshing and looping
one delicate noose to another.

A handsome work,
barbaric in purpose.

In pause of light, I see it whole.
In stillness, I choose the way.

I unbraid its tie
with my own singularity
conceived in the image of God.