The Weaver's Corner

Across the gap, between two posts,

a structure catches light.

Delicate, holding tiny ghosts

of dust, a morning sight.

Threads shimmer, thin as breath,

a geometry of air.

A small, abandoned life, a death

caught in the patient snare.

It waits, this quiet architecture,

for movement, for a sign.

A fragile, fleeting conjecture

of purpose, line by line.