Spinning

I love it when ice crystals skate across the road in gray, ectoplasmic swirls. The temperature finally dropped after weeks of rain to a clear 28 and a crisp frost descended over the grass. Ice-cicles hung over the park's stream, and with the sun shining on the water glittered like our twinkling Christmas lights, so effortless without electricity or plastic or wires. Ice-cicles, our original sparkling inspiration, created silently, invisibly, unshouted, over a little stream.

This poem came to me:

I am the spider
weaving in darkness
creating what is to come.
Purposeless these silver threads
seem to me
over a stream with no fish.

But when the world turns
and lifts its burning eye,
for that day
my web

completed
a mandala of moonlight hope
circle and spoke

will catch what
Earth provides -nothing less -
and I will be satisfied.