The Ruined

A forest of spiderwebs
with predatory insects
larger than a man's thumb 

in Kansas backwoods.

My father in his flannel
plaid shirt and work boots
striding straight through
their strings as if they were

placed there to be broken.

He showed me clover patches
my brother planted to attract
deer, then ambush them with
his bow and arrow

and the half-hidden moss
covered stones running
crooked and misleading
through the underbrush,

a decaying reminder.

I fear large arachnoids but
the web I admire especially
after rain, architectural water
drops that shine like tiny quivering

diamonds beaded together into
a deadly geometric trap.

What I mean to say is my father
teaches the damaged to move
through ruin trusting the displaced
homeless spider will expeditiously

spin another.

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