Dusk in the holler. The thread is already on her.
Barefoot through the leaves. One shoulder stays bare.
The bun is loose. The key sits where the thread slipped.
She sits the way the root offers. One knee up.
Silver at the temple. Copper in the knot.
The thread lifts. She does not.
One arm up. The leaves take the rest of her.
She gathers what she is wearing.
A hand on the bark. The slit does the rest.
The bun is coming undone. She lets it.
She walks into the last light. The thread follows.
Even the holler gets a real smile.
She looks straight through the dusk.
Copper, silver, the key, the line of the throat.
Thread in the fingers. Key at the chest.
She lies down where the light is landing.
She holds the thread out. The sun holds the rest.
Fifty-nine. The bun is only just out of frame.
Seated in the leaves. The thread pools. She does not.
The root, the fog, the last sun. She stays.