The strict manners that make a spider’s Tuesday
Computes the butterfly on spring’s flywheel—
It spins with stark confabulations, say,
Of deeper truths than those left to unreel
The darkest places, full of silences,
Which make of flesh a creeping thought, abstract
And let of blood. Lost as alliances
Among the vehicles of man’s exact
Discourse with mystery, the earth will preach
Of stars’ infinitude, soliloquies
That pulse the veins and carry (more than reach)
Shivering spasms of an April breeze.
The one possible prayer is day to night—
A web ensnared in dew, tattered by light.
That poem is as complex as its subject. Nicely done.
Oh, the weaves we web! Heh.
Thanks Big Jon!
Best,
JOB
The one possible prayer, indeed. Stark, lovely, hopeful, if I understand it. Answers Frost’s “Design”.
I thought of Frost, and perhaps it is an answer, after all. I think if your descriptors are an indication of your comprehension – which I am glad for, as, yes, as Big Jon Bully notes, I tried to make it as intricate as, well, as a spider web… Thanks for reading!
JOB