They lattice the house in thin white lines
And glisten on the windows in the early sun,
Origins and endings unknown, traveled
Threads that track the paths of their creators
Long gone. . .Or sometimes not: A wolf
Spider spins still, there on the west wall,
Sending itself before it, making its way.
Encased in those webs, this maker sits
Safely watching its passage, a fellow hunter
In the middle of many lines—-Accomplished,
Floating anchorless in the air; or intended,
Deep in the making; or still to be, even
The possibility of the next November unseen.