September Sunday sunlight shining through
the windows, marks each streak upon the glass.
It makes the murk apparent in the view;
it webs the air with motes and dries the grass.
So what should light my joy invites my eyes
instead to dust, adrift or layered deep,
and what should stimulate and energize
in me produces tendency to sleep.

The spider web suspended from the tree
is damaged and abandoned by its host.
The planet can survive extremity
but we will leave a dirty trace, a ghost
of pale enlightenment among debris,
and threads of broken webs for history.