The Upper Hand

A web shivers in the air

tethered to a thread

between my Adirondack chairs,

a spider at its head.


The spider hovers silent there—

assassin in the shade—

until the time I need a chair

and ruin what it’s made.


We never know what may come

to claim our foundations:

a hurricane of monster strength

defies imagination,

a spark turned fire storm

spawns a desecration,

a bomb never meant to be

destroys a generation.


And time, a relentless sea

from which we try to hide

will find us—you and me—

and trap us in its tide.


But soon enough the spider creeps,

empowered now beyond

a frightened knot of legs and feet

to fix what was undone.





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