The Sunday Poem: Spiderwebs in Dew

Some things can only be seen
Spattered, smeared, beaded
By accretions. Rendered visibly
useless, an easy target for avoidance.
Magnificent cathedrals honored
Only in their ruin, awaiting
The touch of attenuating sun
Gentle enough to cleanse them
To their clinging state of absence.

Spider webs outside our window this morning

Some things are awesome
Only with invisibility:
The card sharp’s flick,
Magician’s trick, effortless
Soaring of a voice. Others
Revel in acceptance: arm-thick
Cabling suspending bridges,
The shuddering grunt of muscle;
Admiring machinery and not result.

By dusk the spider hovers
Magical, target center in
Invisible bullseyes.
By dawn the bullseye shines
But the magic show is over.
The age-old question looms,
Which is the greater work?
The cathedral or the architect?
The trickster or the trick?