Something is very gently,
invisibly, silently,
pulling at me—a thread
or net of threads
finer than cobweb and as
elastic. I haven't tried
the strength of it. No barbed hook
pierced and tore me. Was it
not long ago this thread
began to draw me? Or
way back? Was I
born with its knot about my
neck, a bridle? Not fear
but a stirring
of wonder makes me
catch my breath when I feel
the tug of it when I thought
it had loosened itself and gone.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3ATRf-n-AsQuk3cWUpDhRRpg2p_bGEXhNWDn6oyIENp7d7G229ElB4M_ZRnwI256C7hX8RT9oyfcHmhp8AI0KQF8LqYO-W7nG_6txs3HUep5CTFvNvNWHdsznNFEbnn34w1SpoLss-_M/s200/Denise-Levertov.jpg)
Art credit: Untitled image by unknown photographer.
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