There – across the yard where mums bloom burgundy,
between the maple and hinoki trees –
a spider web sixty circles wide tethered
in a splint of light. If my body tilts
a bit or my glance angles toward the sky,
it disappears. This artistry demands
straight-on sight and backdrops of evergreens
to confirm it exists. So I stand still –
ignoring the cat sniffing candy tufts,
snubbing red leaves curled on the patio –
captured by the quiddity of silk,
free to ponder how, my dear, we connect
like single threads spiraling/winding/spun.
Whatever backdrops we appropriate,
we’re content, it seems, with today’s design,
angling to re-weave tomorrow’s dawn, bound
by silken lines, by faith our tethers hold.
By Carolyn Martin
Carolyn Martin is blissfully retired in Clackamas, Oregon, where she gardens, writes, and plays. Her poems have appeared in journals throughout the US and UK.
Photo by Carolyn Martin