When I walked in the yard
I made my way among patches of dew —
Those constellations on the darkened grass.
The webs drifted like anenomes,
And I thought of lifting them
As if they were skeins of brilliant yarn
That I could give to my mother
Who’d keep them
Until we knew what to make.
I pictured a shirt —
How I’d pull it over my head
And vanish in the sudden light.
— Stephen Kuusisto