A Poem for Today: Weaver

A ten minute gap I count as margin

lingered a bit longer.

I went out back,

watched the mist,

ethereal droplet parade.

A short life they’ll live, 

ghostly wisps of another place

where there are castles

or something, romance,

claimed shortly by the sun’s true arrival.

When I see it,

taut in the dense orange tree,

glowing,

something warns me about

a man who filmed his vacation,

a poem I once read from a screen

in bed before coffee.

When I see it,

I still run inside

(a compulsion of my people)

grab my camera.

A weaver has been here,

is here now,

flat under a glossy green leaf, likely.

It’s neighbor has a network

of tunnels and lines leading nowhere, fuzzy with dew.

But she is organized, brilliant.

She guards the fruit

even if it’s not her task.

Even if she’s only surviving,

she does it generously.