The question that begins each day
has changed. No longer do I ask:
"Am I still here?" The garden-spider's orb
outside my window has survived the night
to face the rising sun, which she
awaits with patience, in suspense.
Touched by its rays, she stirs
and starts her daily maintenance,
repairing damaged filaments, testing
tensile warp and weft, while I
log on inside the heavy wooden box
that houses me, scanning the web of words
I weave for signs of faulty workmanship.
She is so agile and so deft;
she finishes and comes to rest,
her airy nest of gossamer
a hammock to earth's gentle breath.
As we embark in tandem
on our web-constructing rituals,
the question comes, involuntary
as breathing: "Am I there?"