Patience . . .

the wind lulls

her web

a torn strand waves

it needs to be anchored.

First she spun, then waited, then spun, then waited,

yet nothing is ever finished.

She's spun so much

and right away a thread unsticks itself . . .

trailing across the air . . .

What is the heartbeat of a spider . . .

soft night whispers

in rustling old dreams

of flying

a shimmering white parachute

when she was so little

and first opened all of her eyes