Once the poem has found its place,
Its words all feel they’ve found theirs.
They’re part of that poem; they’re part
Of a real thing with a place
In the great world of named things.
Sun fires silk spun for the moon
By a small beast who rests now
On the branch and waits for night.
When wind stirs the pine, the web
Floats like a bright sail that curls
And pouts but does not let go.
See it? Right now it glows gold.
A deer could steer clear of it
When a net’s lit up like this.
Once the moon’s up, words will fly—
Words like us and you and I.
Wednesday, July 15, 2020
Orb Weave
