silver spider
on a thread
there’s a speck
clutching the coattails
of the first spring
sneeze
dragging anchor
over backyards
spinning silk
it wildly weaves
a canopy clinging
to the lightest
breeze
help him land
help him
please,
to venture
beyond
the seasons
intent,
he was
never
meant to live
much longer
than the length
of the back
fence.
No comments:
Post a Comment