Silver Weaving

Enveloped in gossamer strands,
you leave your nocturnal work for me.
Out the door, into the sunrise,
steaming cup in hand.

Your sticky webs, invisible without
the backlighting of the sun,
capture me in their embrace.

A night time of intricate weaving’sweb
across my face and adorning my
already silver hair.
Still I have no appreciation of your handicraft.

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