There are times when a person returns, and everything seems almost the same. The door still opens easily. The chair waits exactly where it was left. A familiar voice echoes faintly down the hall.
Yet, something in the air has shifted. The difference is invisible but felt. A person returns, but not entirely. There is a reserve in their movements, restraint in their voice. Something is withheld, unnamed.
This change might follow illness, loss, or something more elusive. Sometimes there is no obvious reason at all. That uncertainty is the foundation of Threaded Fire. This poem does not recount an event—it explores what remains.
Threaded Fire
By Kerry Ann Wiley
The room folds around a quiet
too alert for silence.
Something smaller than memory
waits beneath careful scaffolding—
still,
watching.
A glance hesitates—
almost touching.
Something soft,
outstretched.
A mouth shaped wrong, deliberately—
as if words might betray.
The color of old vows
held tight,
a shield refusing to pretend.
There are rules here,
none spoken aloud.
One does not name darkness—
only gestures toward its absence.
Pain is bartered in fractions—
half-truths exchanged for gentleness.
No lies, but close enough.
The question becomes
everything left unsaid.
What’s given is not the thing itself.
It is the offering—
the way a hand doesn’t tremble
but nearly does.
Even a small fire
knows its lineage.
At the threshold,
supported by what was nearly lost,
a vessel shifts form—
not broken,
not quite whole.
Care emerges in increments.
Metal clicks softly—
perhaps the latch of a box.
No words necessary.
A color catches in the corner,
placed gently,
purposefully.
Waiting patiently
to be noticed.
This one wears blue.
Some burdens aren’t set down—
only carried differently.
Between the spaces something flickers—
a thread,
a fire,
not extinguished,
still glowing.
Threaded Fire begins in a room heavy with unspoken tension. Something significant has occurred, though the poem refrains from revealing precisely what. There is no direct explanation. Instead, the reader inhabits a suspended moment, thick with implication.
The poem instead dwells within a subtle, uncertain moment: a hesitant glance, an outstretched hand—steady yet on the edge of trembling. These gestures move beyond physical, becoming quiet revelations of vulnerability and muted resilience.
What’s given is not the thing itself.
It is the offering—
the way a hand doesn’t tremble
but nearly does.
In this careful moment, connection remains fragile, yet it is still possible. What matters is not the offering’s literal content, but the gesture itself, which becomes an act of trust and quiet bravery.
Unspoken rules dictate the exchange. Pain is not communicated through words, but through gestures, absences, and careful omissions. Survival is expressed as a subtle and determined acknowledgment of what it means to remain.
There are rules here,
none spoken aloud.
One does not name darkness—
only gestures toward its absence.
As focus sharpens, attention settles on a figure who has returned—familiar, yet not quite the same. Something in their presence has shifted. Their voice carries a faint unfamiliarity, as though it belongs to someone else. Movements are slow, deliberate, shaped by caution rather than ease. They place something down with quiet care. There is no spectacle, no outcry—only small, precise gestures that speak of effort and endurance.
A color catches in the corner,
placed gently,
purposefully.
Waiting patiently
to be noticed.
The poem moves into quiet recognition. The heaviness does not lift, but it is carried in a new way. It is no longer denied, but accepted. Being there, with quiet purpose, becomes sufficient.
Between the spaces something flickers—
a thread,
a fire,
not extinguished,
still glowing.
After change settles, a return isn’t marked by a dramatic reunion, but by subtle gestures: the warmth left in a recently vacated chair, the hesitation before meeting someone’s eyes, the tremble in a voice that used to be steady.
Small gestures hold significance because they convey what words often cannot. They reflect steadiness, patience, and the quiet kindness of being present—of showing up, listening, and staying close.
Pain does not disappear, but over time it begins to soften, gradually making room for gentleness. Within that space, a thread of fire continues to glow—a quiet reminder that survival often means carrying what remains in a different way.
Healing often reveals itself in quiet, unremarkable ways. It is present in the deliberate choice to move forward, even with hesitation or tenderness. The burden may not grow lighter, but it is carried differently—with intention and with care.
When a return feels both near and distant, and the change cannot be named but is undeniably felt: What reveals that something has changed, when nothing looks different but everything feels altered?
Is it the silence, the pause, the way a hand lingers just a moment longer?
Perhaps it is the way someone stands, no longer bracing for impact.
The way the chest no longer tightens at the sound of a familiar door.
The way the day begins without needing to be overcome.
It may not be a return to what was, but to a quieter way of being within what remains. Not a conclusion, but a way forward that no longer feels like a question.
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