There is a path where I live
that leads to the beach
and every morning when I go to swim
with my dad and grandpa
there are spider webs spun across it.
Tentative tendrils weaved across space
which stick to my face as I rub
the sleep out my eyes.
I always wonder how they do it,
how these small beings spin
their thread from tree to tree
across the vast chasm between,
far bigger than them.
How do they bridge the gaps
without getting their silk stuck
during the dark and lonely night?
Is it possible to spin words
like spiders spin webs?
Words joining beauty and expression,
dazzlingly intricate designs
with a hundred times the tensile
strength of man-made steel
that only sleeping giants break?
Is it possible to rebuild my thoughts
every time night descends
so that only those with starlight cameras
could ever know how it’s done?
How this spider web of words is spun
until just the right place is found
so that it survives the harsh reality of day
and lives on, unbreakable.
Beautiful expression is as strong
and fragile as those silk creations.
Perhaps that’s why my dad tries
to move them gently out the way,
smiling at the spider’s efforts.
It’s just a thought, not a poem,
but move it with care and
it may survive the morning swim.