Anxiety’s Reason

In the drizzle, your arm leaves mine.
You give a sudden shout.
We do not break stride.
It’s the bark of someone who feels their misplacement in the weave.
If I soften my gaze I can even see
The vast, vibrant tapestry of energy
Of all things in their flow,
And your poor thread stretched taught.
It shudders, alone above the soft pulse
How I want to take that fraying wire
And smooth it back into place, give it peace.

But that defeats the purpose, does it not?
It is not for us to take the fraying threads and tuck them in
As a weaver catching stray strands of a rug.
Anxiety is its own form of energy
Announcing discomfort, recognition that if there is a way of things,
You have fallen out of sync.
Who would not vocalize that unease?

I take your arm in mine.
I feel the slight vibrations in you.
We do not break stride.