The thread was never in my hand
to tie a knot or let it fray—
it pulled from some far, silent land
before I’d learned the word today.

I turn a corner, find a face
I’d sketched in dreams I can’t recall;
the rain forgets its planned-in place
and washes steps I meant to stall.

So let the map the starlings keep
unfold across the dusk alone.
I’ll sow what’s given, not what’s deep—
and call the harvest not my own.