Hour Nine, Non rhyming Spider


I stood in my open back door
one strangely wet desert morning,
the rainy season’s nightly offering
wilting my damp clothes against
an already hot body.

Stone walls enclosed a space
we misplaced Midwesterners
had desperately attempted to make
green and fruitful, somewhat succeeding
with struggling grass and stunted
sunflowers, exclaiming in delight
over each tomato and herb that survived
with diligent watering and spotty shade.

As I gazed at the small green space,
I marveled at a hovering, glimmering
strand, a single thread, stretched
between a palm tree and a sunflower,
impressing me so with its strength
and tenacity in the morning breeze
that suddenly I felt both humbled
and grateful, just from the display
of one determined and agile spider,
and a single thread, gleaming
in the early morning light.

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