with two hands
I agonize over the blank calendar,
the pressure of the tomb.
Keyboard keys pop off with overuse.
The bird dies after flinging itself at its own reflection,
nowhere sacred to rest.
I stare at
the spiderweb in the window
sandwiched between two panes of glass
what pains the widow?
Her life is filled with purpose
To create:
a threaded glass tapestry
every morning anew
a harvester and a home.
Eight eyes,
frontward facing,
have seen enough 
and 
just enough.
Only the ruler of the dominant
can master the morning breeze
and not mind the matter.

[Featured Image: Spider, Creative Commons license]