indian summer

riddled with heartache,
a spider’s web sways between
the branches of the old walnut
tree in our back yard;
who did the weaving
and what their intentions were
is written somewhere
in the empty space
between each thread,
invisible to predators and to
the innocent. stained and
knowing fingers
reach up to decipher
a single, shimmery strand,
knowing that with
the season’s first storm
the fruit will fall and the echoes
break, the spell,
as all deception,
end.

4 thoughts on “indian summer

  1. a lot of really powerful lines in this, but
    “stained and
    knowing fingers
    reach up to decipher

    I like the idea of personifying fingers by saying “knowing”.
    I want autumn.

  2. Wonderful. Indian summer and the abandoned web are like the fruit of writing poems: a ghostly resonance. We write these things which bear such faint traces of our fingers …

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