There are those who
make a big deal out of
I watch, wait for silken strings
of spiders’ webs.
The webs draw lines across my face
when I, innocent, walk past trees.
I know winter’s darker days are waiting.
Where have the spiders been all summer?
Hidden deep in blackberry vines, no doubt,
spinning webs, spinning spells,
drinking the juice of the black, black berries.
But now, now that the nights are colder
they weave their webs across the skies
and catch the stars
to drink their juice,
to touch my face