String
In late autumn, few insects
pluck the orb spider’s web,
but do strike fears of famine--
the spider frantically re-spins
the web I’ve blundered through.
Leaves fall, but not all.
The live oaks persist, firs
and redwoods hold needle,
and give that green hope,
yet the stand of poplars
drops leaves at a clip,
line of sight now bare,
days slim, short.
I want to tell the orb spider
to slow down, to rest
on one of her anchor points
on the lattice, to take in
the world rotating from cords
of plenty to thin wires
of almost solitary need,
to the joy of knowing
this slowing motion between
the dying of autumn
and the death of winter.
I whisper, her web trembles.
Warm breath evaporates between us.
Of such small things, grace,
and the heart to remember.
Jeff Burt lives in Santa Cruz County, California, with his wife. He has work in Williwaw Journal, The Muleskinner Journal, Rabid Oak, and Red Wolf Journal.
In late autumn, few insects
pluck the orb spider’s web,
but do strike fears of famine--
the spider frantically re-spins
the web I’ve blundered through.
Leaves fall, but not all.
The live oaks persist, firs
and redwoods hold needle,
and give that green hope,
yet the stand of poplars
drops leaves at a clip,
line of sight now bare,
days slim, short.
I want to tell the orb spider
to slow down, to rest
on one of her anchor points
on the lattice, to take in
the world rotating from cords
of plenty to thin wires
of almost solitary need,
to the joy of knowing
this slowing motion between
the dying of autumn
and the death of winter.
I whisper, her web trembles.
Warm breath evaporates between us.
Of such small things, grace,
and the heart to remember.
Jeff Burt lives in Santa Cruz County, California, with his wife. He has work in Williwaw Journal, The Muleskinner Journal, Rabid Oak, and Red Wolf Journal.
