Gossamer strands roping a post
to a rhododendron, a spider sets up shop
on my porch, sits in a silken galaxy
of concentric threads and radiating
spokes, not knowing
what his weir in the wind will catch.
Spidery patience outlasts this lottery
of fated sticky filaments almost invisible
but for beads of morning dew,
or slanted streams of late afternoon sun.
I check the catch while sipping an early coffee,
or tilting a twilight bottle of beer.
We may fear eight legs, but time
becomes an elaborate web we weave
as years pass, a net of stranded yearnings.
How we fret over our harvest of hours,
until discovering hope’s necessity
caught like insects in a latticework of dreams.
