I slip between the tick and tock.
With needle stab and drag of thread
I build silent silken cocoon. Artful
sleight of hand and, stitch on stitch,
my fingers birth newness, joining
where before was Not. In the gaps
of in-breath and out I move with no
thought, empty of all but the now.
And when the time comes and my
thread must be cut, I do so quick,
sharp, strong. Deft, natural in this
place like no other I move freed
from gravity’s depressions, I fly
for a time. And that is enough.