A poem.

Genius A spider's web beaded with dew bridged low
from bush to bush across my path, sturdy
enough to catch my knee, complex enough
to make me glad to go around.
I waited but she never showed to calculate
the geometrics of a day's hard spin, no
breakfast gained. I figured she would mend
the break, catch something for a later lunch.

And yet the incident had shaken me; musing
about her intricate design I thought of Mozart
writing sonatinas at age six, of Michelangelo
who said: "Tell me if anything was done."
How genius works without acclaim, simply
performing what it can to get some daily bread.
Darren Stone

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