who says spiders can’t think

the webs set up by tiny weavers

strategically positioned to haul in shoals of insects

lured by the parking lot light

are set at the perfect angle to

make the most of the convection currents

the fog illustrates them exquisitely

swirls and billows

and festoons the webs

with multitudes of moonstones

spiders are really fishermen at heart

setting their nets across a surefire tide

but that fog, now paint across a window

then a mist of some sweet forgotten fragrance

keeps making moonstones

that swell and sparkle

crystalline orbs in which a future might be cast

or a past retrieved

their beauty weighs down the strands


like souls that have heard one too many stories


but still holding true

stepping back into the dark

the light reminds me of a fading slide

Mt Fuji in the fifties

almost as bleached as the bones

of the photographer who framed the shot