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
stretched
like souls that have heard one too many stories
sagging
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
mutabilia 