In some north country
Where birch groves portend drifts to come,
Stands afield a sage and weathered barn,
Ranks of rafters peaking in lofty shadow.
A shaft of light
Catches spider’s filigree,
Exquisite ‘gainst the darkness,
Riding whispers in the hay mow.
Appears the weaver at this loom
Inspecting lifework spun for purpose,
Who pauses now
To puzzle at an out-of-pattern strand,
A single filament rising,
Vanishing into rafter darkness,
Untidy, all use forgot.
With single stroke
To safeguard symmetry,
Spider severs the offending thread
As the whole collapses
Enfolding the maker
In its own web.
* based upon a Nordic folk tale
