suspended on your web
above the running water
laying lines of entrapment.
Your spun creation is beautiful,
strung with prism bead droplets.
I watch you catch a little creature,
and wrap it up with spindly legs.
You have a magical, transient space
to live and work,
and you are.
Smooth, alive cracking water,
moths and dragonflies
of irredescent blue and creamy white
pass by your table.
When I met you,
you were hungry.
In this moment,
you are satisfied.
You do not wonder
who you are.
I am, every moment,
the potential for being
all that I am.
I am a creator also,
and it is my work to spin
such a shimmery connection,
to be hungry,
to be satisfied,
to build the web back up
when wind and water
sweep it away.
My job is to be the
weaver of the net,
the connector of the dots,
not the one caught,
but the one waiting,
listening, with stillness,
in the center.
