From purple beech to eucalyptus,
from door jamb to window frame, garbage
can to blackberry bramble, rain-studded
webs glisten in the morning light. In each
center, spinnerets in rows like dull gold nipples,
the weaver waits, silent as a held breath,
listens with its legs for a trembling —
dark knot that spun this trap.

When the desire for a web first stirs,
the spider floats a thread into the air.
I've seen those lines floating from a stand of firs,
and dangling from one strand, suspended
from its cast-off skin, a tiny gnarl — rudderless,
wind-whipped — shuddering as it drops to earth.

Barbara Bowen