Like an old spider web, the
kind which weathered,
sacrifices disarranged threads to a late August wind —
rhythmic and forlorn, severed
from the touchstones of the initial vision —
the cedar, the downspout, the neglected chair.
The solution lies in an ability to recognize, in the withering chaos,
what once existed, where emotions flowed, how they rose
to bind events into sweet history — a stream
and stream-sound and laughter which was salve on wounds.
In the events, in the event that, how great is
a spider’s faith to envision an end and to begin again.