The sail lies quiet on the table,
its journey folded into cream and salt.
Outside, the harbor lifts a shoulder;
a rope draws tight, then loosens again.
I follow where the threads lost each other.
The needle enters darkness, comes back bright.
No stitch pretends the storm did not pass over.
It joins what can be joined tonight.
Along the edge, stones keep canvas steady.
The lamp makes islands in the grain.
A spool gives up its violet by inches,
not at once, not faster for the rain.
There will be wind beyond the harbor entrance.
There will be weight this seam must bear.
I cannot mend tomorrow yet;
I can make something fit to meet it there.
The work is small beside the water.
Its smallness does not make the work untrue.
A line of thread can carry more than color:
it holds a place where wind can gather too.
So leave the door ajar until morning.
Let damp footprints fade upon the stone.
The boat can wait without becoming empty.
The cloth rests here, not alone.
I set the needle down beside the scissors.
One seam awaits another morning.
The lamp stays lit. The harbor keeps its motion.
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