There’s an ancient house
in some rural county, where
a woman cuts out a man
from the many photographs she owns
the collage of picture outlines that remain
seem like sediment, wreckage, detritus.
She wonders if she will ever be able
to view them
completely.
Elsewhere,
a Darwin’s Bark Spider
weaves a thread across a river.
Beset by many failures,
she works at it with perseverance.
the fanning web carried on the gentle wind,
like notes of music softly played
imperceptibly light,
invisible amongst the multiplicity of its surroundings,
evident only from a particular angle.
The orb weaver can see it though,
and she will grasp the translucent string,
given enough time.
The experience of healing resides too,
on that breeze,
amongst the blinding glare of every day things.
With patience, you will see it too, under the light,
and begin holding on
to the tender silk. With luck,
you’ll never let go.
