


The spider works quickly to get the larger insect wrapped within its web. The insect doesn’t struggle; it may be dead. But the web is in tatters and shakes violently every time the spider moves. I watch the action, hoping the spider secures its hard-won meal before the web gives out.
Progress is slow, and my attention wavers. When I check back, the spider is sitting motionless in its sparse web, and the big catch-of-the-day is nowhere in sight. Has it fallen from the web? After all the spider’s hard work? I am compelled to make it right, find the bug. Maybe I can stick it back on the web somehow.
I part the plants beneath the spider’s web, and sure enough, there it is. Still wrapped in webbing. Still dead. But… moving? Two small ants have taken a hold of the hapless bug and are hauling it off as their own pre-wrapped prize. I am too late. Nature has already made it right.
nature’s web pulled taught
broken strands and gaping holes
mend on, weavers, mend


Day 25 of NaPoWriMo.
Today’s Prompt:
Taking a cue from John Keats’ poem, “To Autumn,” write a poem that (a.) is specific to a season; (b.) uses imagery that relates to all five senses; (c.) includes a rhetorical question, like Keats’ “where are the songs of spring?”
I’m so enjoying the warmer weather of late, and all the greenery, I couldn’t imagine writing about any season other than Spring.

In increments imperceptible to most,
light of day expands, hours of dark recede,
and life erupts from warming soil;
sprung from damp earth, a geyser of green,
gushing through garden and bramble and lawn,
flowing up trees, pushing sap as it surges,
splitting through soft bark of branches and twigs,
spewing leaves and blooms when at last it emerges.
While Steller’s jays gather moss for their nests,
the smaller scrub jay and a petulant crow
vie for clear title to raspiest call; and
collared doves hide in tall trees, and echo:
who Whoo who, who Whoo who.
Who planted the bulbs shooting up through the duff?
sacheted hyacinth, tulip and dainty blue bell,
bouquets laced with pungent rosemary sprigs,
and laid atop carpets of soft lemon basil;
as dandelions and dead nettle wait to serve tea.

NaPoWriMo, Day 23. The prompt:
Write a poem about an animal.

Tell me again about the whales, Great-gran; did you
ever see one?
Yes, child, I have seen them,
but only from afar.
Even at a great distance, it must have been amazing!
That it was, child. That it was. Such grand beings!
What happened to the whales, Great-gran?
Oh, child, they went the way of the dinosaur,
and the wolf, and the elephant,
and the eagle…
Oh, how sad.
Yes, yes, it is very sad.
Great-gran, have you ever seen a human?
Great-gran… Why are you crying?
I have seen them, Child. I will not speak of them,
except to say there are some things
I wish I had never seen.
Day Seven of NaPoWriMo. The prompt:
Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem of gifts and joy. What would you give yourself, if you could have anything? What would you give someone else?
What better gift than nature?

Spring’s blanket of blooms
spreading of it’s own accord
Gaia arises
Day Five of NaPoWriMo. Lots of choices for the prompt today. I chose to write a villanelle, which is defined as such:
The classic villanelle has five three-line stanzas followed by a final, four-line stanza. The first and third lines of the first stanza alternately repeat as the last lines of the following three-line stanzas, before being used as the last two lines of the final quatrain.
Clear as mud? I thought so, too. But I gave it a go anyway.

If we only had the time –
just imagine if you would –
all the mountains we could climb.
Wouldn’t it be fine?
Leisured strolls in shaded woods
if we only had the time?
If we let the years unwind,
wove the hard times with the good,
all the mountains we could climb.
We’d pick peaches in their prime,
dine beneath the cottonwoods
if we only had the time.
If we heard the clock bells chime,
left our worries where they stood,
all the mountains we could climb!
How might our futures be defined
if we only understood?
If we only had the time,
all the mountains we could climb.
Also posting on dVerse, where the poem form for the month is the villanelle.

