love does that

Every golden morning, the latch in my fingers
is sticky with orb and optimism.

The spider and I are each either resilient or ignorant,
the line between them gossamer as ever.

In order to leave this peacock place, 
I must carelessly tear through the web,
swing open the gate, and shatter the dappled shade.

Did she work all night building this beauty,
(hook, spin, toss, finish, bind, repeat)
and now lies panting on the adobe?

I know there is a metaphor here - 
rise / shine
create / destroy
open / close 
human / arthropod

- but all I can think is that I want to climb 
the wall, do whatever it takes to leave 
that fragile beauty in place.

I need to do my small part to slow the wreckage
of this world. ​