He had fastened

He had fastened,
he thought,
to himself.
To himself,
he thought,
he had fastened.

Supple bough,
was sapped,
and creaking joints
were poised to snap.

His mother
he recalled
had weaved
when he was small
flower patterned
vines and grapes,
intoxicating fruits
affixed by thread.

He laid his hand on life,
on patterns older than himself,
and thought;
"I am finished, weaved.
My thread runs low.
My knotted mind is spent,
and frayed.
Now let the weave bet cut,
my life's pattern finished, layed."

But yet he sat.
He thought,
I'm fastened.