Web

By: Cecil Vernon Crumrine, Jr.

I marvel at the genius
of the lowly spider
busily spinning
a brilliant maze
from mere wisps
of pearlescent silk,
creating a master etching
suspended in space
as frail and delicate
as pillow lace...

I anguish
over the absence
of the veracity of our passionless,
stilled hearts;
I grieve
for our steadfast refusal to build
our own lofty castles in the air;
I weep
for the rhapsodic personae
we once knew ourselves to be.