Tangled silk

A spider web sits, woven across the double doors with perfect droplets of dew catching and refracting the sunlight.

Undisturbed it waits. Waits to be seen? To be understood? To catch a fat and wriggling fly and to hold it, living and nourishing until the spider arrives? 

How easily I could tear this web, first through the double doors as I am.

How strong it is, holding the weight of itself and the sparking water and the sunlight and the spider's expectations. 

I expect to see you in this poem. Are you the building? The doors? The web seems most obvious: full of contradictions and beauty and light. So strong and so easy to destroy. 

Maybe you're the one entering the building, ducking around the web. Making the plunge, despite the risk of destruction. All the power in your hands and still you chose kindness. Maybe you're typing these words into the keyboard, your fingers feeling the smooth keys, your ears registering the gentle click as the words move on.

Specificity, the head of fundraising tells me, is the key to being relatable. People are more likely to identify with a specific story than a general one. 

My poetry teacher in college tells me, avoid vast concepts like love and eternity. Think of intimate ways to access things too big to imagine.

All your poems are about you, my brother says. 

Maybe this isn't a poem. Maybe it's a sentence. Maybe it's just that I saw a spider web today and there were dew drops handing from it like jewels and the sun shine through it and I though of the way your eyes are so brown they almost turn green. 

Maybe it doesn't have to be more than that.