A Thread of Morning

I slid off the low cushion and paused before the woven runner on the table. The cream threads crossed over each other in quiet, precise ridges. I sat near the fringed edge, steadying my hands, and gently separated three loose linen strands. One looped over the second; the third held them firm. A tiny, self-standing knot formed beneath my touch. It felt like establishing order for the morning.