The brushed pollen dust removes its camouflage
being gently spun on windless beams, ravenous
when hatched in darkness (hidden by trees,
unseen), until the light slices into clearing-
or when magic crisscrosses a Midas moment:
and gold dust spills out from energy's faucet
released by barely-brushed, spider hatchings.
Ah, such modest touch of kingly hands, the dust
of fighting dwarfs or tangling elves alights
above our morn in dance, absent of smell:
the silt of nature is cloaking a low ravine,
like some rare defense system's caught
object, losing its mask; a blip on the radar's
laboring years, I spent far away from here.
Share This Poem