Puzzle Without a Picture

The rope sings thin between my fingers.
The knot scalds my palm, the drop waits, patient.
I have hauled heavier loads,
waded deeper waters,
yet this weight will not yield,
a stone on the breast of morning.

If one hand reached,
lifting an ounce,
carrying a single pound,
giving the smallest nudge forward,
the road would brighten after rain,
and I would swear I never wrote this.

But if no hand comes,
if quiet keeps its watch,
the man behind these lines will break,
pieces spread, a puzzle without its picture.

Still, I will kneel, gather every shard,
set them on the floor, try piece to piece,
and wait for the whisper to pass over them.

The rope frays, the dawn is stern,
yet I keep tying knots.