There is a turning in the water,
a bend that holds itself long enough
to call a center.
Not a stone in the stream, but the stream’s own shape,
wearing the current
until it learns a name.

A steady glance pulls the edges near,
thread drawn through the shuttle’s quiet eye.
An hour of it, and the floorboards settle
into one direction. Let the eyes drift,
and the walls grow thin, the loom sighs
its pattern loose. What takes days to knot
unties in a breath.

You turn to find the one who turns,
but only the turning turns back.
A corridor where every surface is the surface,
no corner holds a shadow with a face.
Just the watch, the watch, the watching
leaning into itself until it names the light.

There is no threshold behind the glass,
no path that ends where the seeing stops.
The horizon is not a line you face,
but the eye that draws the line.
You cannot step beyond the stepping,
cannot hold the angle in a pocket,
cannot watch the watching from a chair that isn’t the watching.

When the last note leaves the air,
the room does not keep it.
It was never a vessel, only a vibration,
a shape the breath made and returned.
When the loom goes still, the threads do not flee.
They settle into the grain.
The current forgets its name and keeps moving.

Not what you are, but how the holding holds.
Not where you end, but what keeps the center turning.
Every glance is a pull at the thread,
every quiet a loom that learns to weave.
And when the water finally unspools,
it will not have gone anywhere.
It will only have been the water,
learning to bend.