A floating line cast
    out into the world,
        so light it floats, adrift
            in the soft hush of dusk.

The smallest filaments
    invisible, and only
        where it has clumped up,
            overlapping itself

in it’s tidal ribboning,
    has it become thick enough
        to be seen, a white tightrope,
            only not tight at all, but fluid,

wafting out from this
    twig into the sky – a bridge
        to the soft pink and deep
            black horizon.

And she – this tiny being,
    so small I nearly missed her –
        dangles down. My mind knows
            that she is held there

by a similar
    thread – but I could
        swear she is verily
            suspended in midair

by nothing but her
    own lightness
        of being.