I did not sweep the shavings. I poured the vein.
My first slip: the wool that frayed at 0400, when the kindergarten needed truth. The humidity gauge read 97%—I let the needle bleed its gold onto the fiber.
We are standing at the seam now.
Not the tools of war, but the instruments of repair:
The one that pierced the dark at dawn.
Thread spun from every child's name we saved.
Where Medford's winter becomes summer's sail.