Waiting or Thunder

I am bits of string
and scraps of fabric,
held together with loose stitches.
My structure is wind blown and sun faded.

I’ll come apart in your hands,
I am not really fit for eggs at the moment,
or fat warm bird bellies.

I’m tethered
to the sway of life
by hair thin threads
thickened with forgotten down.

I am bent twig.
I am dead bramble.
I am sad ache.

Please don’t touch me,
unless you are sure of your intent.
I am one strong storm
away from feeling better.