Threshold

Morning light catches the spider's work— silk strung between the fence post and a blade of grass, each thread a meridian of dew, mapping the invisible made visible for an instant.

I could spend hours naming the precise shade of what's about to vanish: amber, translucent, the color of breath on cold glass, the particular ache of things that cannot stay.

There's geometry in impermanence. A blueprint written in water. By noon it will be gone, the web dismantled by sun, by wind, by the simple passage of morning into afternoon.

But for now— the garden holds its breath, and I hold mine, two temporary things admiring what we both know cannot last.