I slip into the nest,
and await the harvest;
The spider eyes its catch,
with no toil to match;
It's born with nature's boon,
For me no easy way to moon.
The harvest is no fairy
to shower its manna on me.
Awed by blue hilly terrain,
rhythmic sway of the train,
steep recline of the vale,
soft hum of birds in the dale,
frolicked with mates in the alley,
picked rubies of love with glee;
Child is the mother of Man,
buoys him up for the next span.
Youth furrowed in toil,
seeking light in midnight oil,
darkness encasing the Crescent,
sparks in the hearth of the Present.
I remember it was then
the web of dreams was spun.
But the coveted harvest was lost,
the web in pieces, to be recast.
My web is no seer to say,
life will shape like the Milky Way;
I may tend my park fair,
but keep weeds off its lair?
Days are beads of sweat, no crown,
I hear its echo every morn,
I need to weave my web,
'cause it mothers a radiant cub.
