High in soft mountains,
where indigo is the basis
for shadow, the spiders crawl
slowly toward their meetinghouse,
a web so thick that beech leaves
and dropped feathers now form
part of its infrastructure.
In this place, there is no direction,
But there is a system, and
on the island, that system sends
me onto the porch at daybreak
to watch the mist over the orange
stumps, to listen as birds drown
out the Zenith's partial message:
"It tasted good both ways."
posted by Reen |link| 0 comments
