Five of Ten

The sun lights up to piercing bright
ness the multiplanar web floss of autumn's spidering harvest.
Spiders come out in autumn to harvest the dreams of the year
and its fruiting (in flight).

Light so harsh, sideway sun,
all I can see are leaves, crimson clusters of yew berries,
and webs and floss:

One web, a large dial, a stylus to another timespace continuum
only eight strands on the edge and a donut hole of apple tree greenery possibility beyond, aslant from me. Closer in a large geometry radiates, rainbow flickering in the slight breeze. Some of the webs I can only see because I spy the spider in the middle,
a spot of brown seeming to hang in space, to fly. Wait, webs work because they are barely visible, because something can try to fly through. They are mesh but also air. [The air of the web is its most functional component.] It's ironic to notice and glory in their beauty when they are momentarily lit. Their true purpose is a darker one, more kin to shadow and flicker. They function in twilight best if also best praised in sun.

As in Abrams' Balinese webs, they must be viewed with soft eyes, seen whole,
the myriad of them a metapattern of shining, radiant rainbow spangle, taut lines to sundry circles, Nets cast to flight. A maker's symphony of complex weavery. A multiplanar dream. A galaxy.

Suddenly the wind brings another into view and I see the graceful legs weaving out from spineret's fine floss, in the moment of making. Is the air to floss ratio the same as in outer space, the space between atoms/electrons/matter and matter? The space between electrons in an atom, is it that wide? Like the web of outer and inner space?

How do they decide where to attach and swing, silk fluming,
to build their webs? They like the edges of things, how to connect something to something else.

Here I am, half way through the semester, fifth day of tenth month - so 5 of 10 in more ways than one...

Here I am, perched on the edge of the year, insight slanting in,
hovering on my discus of connections, between the edges of things, half- air, swayable, fragile, a momentary artwork praising coherence,
functioning in twilight but artworthy in moments of sunspangle.
Placed at the center of my thinking, furiously weaving.
Or just waiting, surfing air and an ocean of flying things,
waiting for the next great thing.


10-5-10 r2