A poem

A spider’s web beaded with dew bridged
low from bush to bush across the path,
sturdy enough to catch my knee, complex
enough to win my admiration,
so I gladly went around.
I waited but the artist never showed to
remonstrate loss of her hour’s work and
breakfast, too. I trusted she could fix the
breach and later catch a fly to eat.
But all that day I thought of Mozart
writing music at age six, and other
geniuses who work untiringly just
to bring home some daily bread.
Darren Stone

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