Morning dew on the web gleams
like dreams of the future.
As the day wears on, droplets melt
in the instant’s heat.

Strands of past stick with an oiliness
and stifle identities in its silky snare,
while cords of present pin all down
in a latticework.

It is a wondrous web, still.
New angles, new patterns.
Its existence is mysterious;
the weaver blessed.