Air moves slowly through the open door
then begs the corner of my eye
to watch

as a small thread from a spider's web
turns into a gold chain even as I look away
feeling like I can't bear to know
how fragile this one thing is
and how carelessly it can be destroyed

but I have already seen it
connecting the wooden door frame
to the bookcase

where in one corner
a book is wrapped up in patient silk
sewn up so tight
lace fingers of it
hold its pages in place

I see a fluff of feather there
caught fast by the delicate strings
cast across the air
and taken by the sun
like a piece of art holding mighty
a drift from a molting summer bird

I watch a hammock swing
macraméd and filled gracefully with wind
then set on fire with sunlight
and I am captured in the whim

that it is marking a path
to the place of bare feet
and the sound of summer's children in the yard
gone too soon and replaced with slamming car doors
and crows quarreling in the shadows of morning

How slowly air moves into the voices of the trees

Over my shoulder I sense time moving
made from the slipping of summer
even as I turn
wanting to catch
the first squeal
from a cool-down sprinkler's child

and only find the sound of leaves