Strands of fiber spun into
long thin strands used for sewing—
yet, no one trusts someone
spinning a yarn!
Under a full moon one sees
the river like a thread of silver
threading its way through
the plains and valleys.
When the fabric of the society
wears thin
no thread can mend it.
Sometimes, I just do not understand
and lose the thread of my thoughts,
and it gets so precarious that
I feel I am hanging by a thread.
Eyebrow threading
or threading a screw,
thread ties loose ends
mends a tear
or surf the sky tied to a kite.
I wonder if you find
a common thread
running through my poem?