spun

I am not the spider that spun this web.

Nor am I the fly that trembles the lines. 

I am not the eternal light-post, 

or the ancient cedar that hold tether to the end of time. 

I wish I was. 

I could have been the silver globs of water 

that gemmed the seams and cross-sections.

I could have been the field, 

wind in me, crisp in morning. 

I wish I was the youthful sun. 

but I am not.

I could have been the Living River. 

I was once a creek. 

But that was only potential.   

I am not my mother’s forest gone to rest, forgotten. 

I am not my father’s climber of mountains.

I am the man swatting at air, 

clumsy in my fuzzy logic, 

buffoon, 

pulling silk threads from my hair, 

oblivious the beautiful metaphor. 

I am cock.

I am the apocalypse.

of little spider’s webs.