Loose

Loose

In the attic trunk a moth‑eaten scarf,
its wool unfurled like sighs of autumn air,
a gentle tug and the threads go loose,
drifting free from seams that held them tight.

Down the cobbled lane the market stall
shakes out a basket of apples,
some roll away, their skins bruised,
loose upon the stone, seeking purchase.

Your laughter spills, a ribbon undone,
ties of formality slipping,
conversations wander, thoughts go loose,
finding comfort in the uncharted.

Even the clock on the wall feels loose,
its pendulum swaying a fraction slower,
as if time itself inhales, exhales,
and lets the moments slip, unclasped.

So we learn to hold what we can,
to cherish the snug, the steadfast, the sewn,
yet welcome the loose—the breath between,
the space where possibility takes root.