A LITTLE SPIDER THREAD

The red leaves that hang suspended in the woods
and tremble or turn or pivot at a breeze
always console me. I tiptoe and shift
to slide the little sunlight to and fro
adhering quietly to the spider thread,
no more than slips along a damp eyelid
turning away, or rounds a drop of dew—
thin shuttles of the sun’s fingers these
that ply so many and such perilous strings,
and sew so many unnecessary things.

Vincent Tice is a poet from northern California. He has been living out of a backpack for several years and working on farms. He has been recently published in PANK, and Rattle Press.