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I wonder

the same way a spider stitches her web,
casts the thread from her body like
an anchor, descends upon her
own gossamer from the
branches of her oak,
where she has
stored her

mostly verbs & metaphor.

This spider, whose life in
autumn is dictated by a
careful weaving — time
marked by the creation, the
stitch, the intricate pattern —
is beautiful mostly because
in her web we see the shadow,
the steady letting of leaves,
the persistence of time.

So, we lower our laughter
till it is audible only to the
person directly beside us:
something at once intimate
& holy because of its aim.

Which is a choice, but more
than a choice is also a need.

To aim the sound, to feel the
small connection something
as simple as sound can grant
us, catching & holding each
drifted word who comes close
enough to catch & hold.

Can grant us, at least till a
person passes, not noticing
how closely, at dawn, the
web holds the word, and
swiftly shatters the lace.

Like I imagine water,
marked as it freezes,
loses, as it defrosts,
the mark, but not the
memory of the mark.

Forced to recall forever
the way the small cracks
caught the dawning light;
not precisely the way
hair will hold sunlight

but close enough that it
makes us miss both
sunlight and hair.
Posted 11/20/12
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