Words are small, written or spoken,
their message blurs in the growing shadow,
they do not grasp like they would
in the slowness of forgotten days,
but loft and founder somewhere
in their search for the one that will listen.
Birds carry the clues to our song
so high above us,
where stars swirl behind the parchment of blue
grinding their chorus of cold fire in response.
The uncut grass harbors shimmering silk,
these cold nights the spiders climb down
into the pasture’s tiny hearts,
spinning their stories to an audience of stone;
their weightless moorings
stream like silver banners
unnoticed in the sinking season.
(c) Seth Grube