then a cataclysmic event washes over our world
we find ourselves stunned amidst debris
the illusion of permanence stripped away
in despair we try even more
root our delusions deep into the ground
with harder materials and fortified means
instead we could with newfound awareness
learn from the spider how to build gossamer webs
crackled with beautiful threads
webbed by years passing well, each line a story
whispered lives of master farmers
distant rocky terraces and trees older than human span
infused with craft and love
hands that hold it now, my hands
likewise display patterns of time, historied wrinkles thinning skin
etched by so many memories, moments beyond recall
always, always there is tea
a tree prone with roots exposed
the fist of the storm closed round it
no bird perches there
vines of deep scarlet growing tall
the earth throws its veins above ground
no squirrel makes a path here
fallen buds form delicate lattices
mold blackens them with deadly grace
no insect disturbs them
portents of change no longer imminent
the clock strike now upon us
we saw the sky darken
ominous hues of purple and black
bruises on wounded flesh
we heard the wind rise
balefully lashing mountain and field
striations of bloody destruction
we did not understand
we did not know
we did not believe
now we mourn
rain pummels hard the roof
wind throws branches against the walls
creek rushes down the street
darkness hits with an audible thud
leaves aged for nineteen years
rest inside a celadon cup
a swirl of hot water poured and then
in a few moments, tea
handle must be held
contemplate time’s passage brief
release then exit
a flow like waves upon the shore
ceaselessly rising and falling
one crest born from another dying
ocean’s water all the same
breathe
shadows in the trails now discard their secrets
ones they’ve gathered from migrating birds
industrious squirrels, and scurrying insects too small to see
these fall to rest in colorful array among leaves
there to slip into stories of unsuspecting travelers
walkers, through-hikers, and bikers on their way too quickly
so that when they next talk in casual conversation
or even engage in discourse profound
their speech will be changed by the lives of others
intangible subtle different threads
memories woven together with those of spiders
look across the span of time
back at the child you think you were
a memory that walks beside you
a song you heard sung every day
a breakfast you ate each morning
there was a boy, a girl, a youth once
a song and a favored food
how do you know that one was you
how do you know what happened
you have never seen your own face
your heart, so full of love, so full of grief
cannot prepare for absence
will not allow to you to sit at the table
alone and say, she will not sit here again
it insists that this cannot be so, this void
looks away determined that she waits
one footstep away from entering the room
and if only you look at just the right moment
she’ll walk in to pull out her chair
the fullness of this daily act so simple, so dear
that without it, the silence swallows all
still you hear your overflowing heart, your stubborn heart
crack and crack and crack