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,