Delicate Work

The corners are hung with cobwebs, that,
Somehow, have been missed
In day to day inspection.
Poised with broom in hand,
I hesitate to brush them away.
I stand there thinking of their delicate beauty
And the frightening ease with which
Each performed its duty.
Soon though, the silken strands were coated with dust,
Reduced to cobwebs, and made useless to the world.
"Some things just have to be replaced over time,"
I tell myself as I scan the walls.
The cynic in me tugs at the corner of my mouth,
So with an uneven smirk I attend to my chore,
Undoing another's work, as I wait for them to return
And undo my own.

1:14 p.m.
May 28, 1998

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