At the very bottom of the
embroidery box
lies a tangled mess of thread.
The skeins are loose,
no longer tightly bound.
The ends frayed,
colors fatally faded.
Careworn hands that
once held family together,
stitch by stitch,
now struggle to straighten.
She smoothes her skirt upon her knee.
Staring absently, she recalls a life
negligent with its neglect
of the necessary.
She sees that now.
What mattered.
Picking at a loose thread
she tries to tie it off,
to make it right.
Careworn
in Poetry