Untangling Knots

In the quiet of a house that once felt

like a wind‑choked forest,

the walls breathe in a rhythm

only the floorboards remember.

A thread—thin as sunrise— slips

through the cracks of old doors,

pulling loose the tangled yarn

that has wrapped around each shoulder,

each sigh.

We are not the storm that raged,

but the amber light that leaks

through the broken shutters,

painting the dust with promises

of tomorrow’s horizon.

Roots, deep and restless,

push against the concrete of resentment,

finding fissures to surface,

to drink the rain of forgiveness

that drips from a cracked sky.

Each word spoken is a bridge,

plank laid over a river

that once rushed too fast to cross.

We step, wobble, and then,

with hands that have known both bruises

and lullabies, find balance

in the sway.

The house does not collapse;

it re‑assembles itself

in the echo of laughter

that rolls like gentle thunder,

in the soft rustle of pages turned

back to the beginnings,

where love was first written in ink

and in the spaces between.

And when night folds its dark shawl,

the stars—abstract, distant—glimmer

through the ceiling cracks,

reminding us that even in the deepest

shadows, light threads itself

through the fabric of us,

stitched anew, hopeful,

unbreakable.