What I Do:






Beryl’s Garden

She made her home of finest silk
threaded intricately between the alliums;
twin batons with dry, brown remnants
of sparkling summer days held aloft
like wisps of the sulfur-scented smoke that hangs
in the humid dusk of a July celebration.
I name the tiny creature Charlotte,
what else;  talk to her as I clear away detritus.
Even with her long legs, she’s but a speck; delicate, dancing
on the gossamer tightrope she's stung for herself
one hundred and eighty times her own height above ground.
My gloved hand reaches out automatically,
to sweep away the threads that hold her life together
where dew gathers and where
meals deliver themselves to her doorstep.
Over my head a raven calls and I pause
A breeze shakes her home and I
imagine her eight knees quaking.
And though it means that these two,
the Allium Towers will be all that remain
between the rocks near the tree loaded with gnarly, sweet apples,
I withdraw my arm of destruction
leaving Charlotte in her penthouse of silk
at the edge of Beryl’s garden.

AMR © 2017


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