webbed

dew settled morning... the spiders work is done for the night...
sheathes of grass, blown feathers, droplettes...

trapped for the day.

just like queen anne's lace...
spreading out to the world
stem one by one, each to its end,
until the whole field is a
white desire, empty, a single stem,

a cluster, flower by flower,
a pious wish to whiteness gone over--
or nothing.

- w. c. williams