In spider season, when the webs are strung
across the porch each morning – sticky floss
like gossamer against my face among
autumnal dawning air – when oak leaves toss
with sycamore and bay in gutter pot
pourri, it’s then I comprehend the breeze.
I see the point of hummingbirds and grow
so wise it nearly brings me to my knees.

The day is looking good, and so am I.
Collecting compliments I take the streets
in spider season, striding on the dregs
of summer, middle-aged and feeling high.
Synapses snap. Epiphany completes
the ecstasy of oxygen and legs.