Read Poems by Evelyn Hew

  

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Threads of Time

one thread
                      unravels
              quietly
        from the cuff
           of yesterday—

   loose and golden,
         tugged gently
               by wind
                     or memory.

        another thread,
                  silver-fine,
         winds forward
    into what might be
                tomorrow,

         still unwoven,
         still soft with
             silence.

    time does not run;
           it is stitched—
       moment to moment,
           strand to strand,
              through every glance,
         every breath,
                      every choice
    you never realized
                 you were making.

                    there are knots:
             places where two lives
                    touch and tighten.

         places where
    the pattern breaks,
         frays, forgets itself—

                   and others
           where it mends
                with color.

    the past is not gone;
          it is threaded through you,
     hidden in the seams
               of your skin,

         tucked in the hem
         of your voice
         when you say their name.

       you walk wrapped
       in stories
     you don't remember telling,
         stitched tight with the
            hands of those
               you never knew.

               (and still,
                 somehow,
                   you knew them)

        the threads twist—
     through journals and old songs,
   through maps and postcards,
       through laughter echoed
              across generations—

          they pass through rings,
              through cracked clocks,
             through names etched
                   in notebooks
                       and photographs.

     time does not move forward.

              it weaves.

     in loops and overlaps,
        in tangles and designs
          we can only see
                when we stop
                        and trace
                           with wonder.

      so pull a thread,
              any thread—

          and feel the hum

                 of centuries

                         beneath

                               your fingertips.

Copyright © Evelyn Hew | Year Posted 2025