Perhaps it is patience,
or the slow digest
that lures me to a web.

Perhaps it is stillness
and those eight black eyes
of a widow’s watch.

For nothing runs in the hourglass,
no sand, no blood –
all things are stilled.

As she waits for eons,
we have only days,
between a love and a winding,

And as each swept thread
clings to the straw,
the broom cannot unweave

What long before our eyes
had warmed a heartbreak –
cannot dispel the grief that binds us,

One long strand, each to another,
like silk that holds all the rain
at once in a tear, or a dewdrop.

Image: Lachlan on Unsplash

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