The long wait for the angel,/For that rare, random descent,
“Black Rook In Rainy Weather,” Sylvia Plath
Last night returning garden tools to the garage,
I turned and caught the evening light
filtering through a gauzy spiderweb
slung in a corner of the door.
Anchored by the square frame,
held only by a few fine threads,
the whole ethereal thing
drifted gently on the breeze.
So fine it might have been one
of my cousin’s bobbin lace creations,
made by weaving miniscule threads
around pins on a plump cushion.
But really more like an old-fashioned
crocheted doily made by interlocking loops
of cotton with a single hook.
This resident of my garage had abandoned
her work, left it hanging like
an interactive art installation.
Did she know that seeds blown
into its orbit would fasten themselves
like sequins on a blue backcloth of sky
creating tiny planets
in a lacy constellation?
That I would stumble into
this image like a fly into a web?
That it would take a trick of the light
to startle me into seeing?
To turn my head?
