One January (by Robert Wallace)

At the full of summer the spider swung
Her net against the wind, and anchored it
From the morning-glory vines and the white
Corner of the garage, and in the full sun

Plied her precarious trade all summer long,
And in October disappeared. But her web,
Like a torn and impossible memory,
Has clung to its slender moorings, and hung

Derelict and storm-battered on; and
This morning boasts a dry brown leaf flung
There through the night by some quick wind,
A meager glory for the coming year.

(As published in The Windflower Home Almanac of Poetry, Edited by Ted Kooser, Windflower Press, 1980)

 

Robert Wallace said, “No magic, no poem.”   

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