Rachel Dacus


People in private gardens with heads bent
to the weeds might have missed
orb spiders the size of baster bulbs,
crouching on legs thin as the webs they slung
in the night forest. They watched us
gather under their airy work. Turning
a worry's earth, some of us might have missed
the chartreuse hourglass on a spider's stomach,
the way it Eschered into the pines.

We stood in a circle beneath shawled webs,
while a woman made this remark
about missing the larger garden's branching, fine
and vast as these treed fishing nets.
Calling us from our private digs, she observed
that small things block the vast. A chigger's itch
makes you miss sunrise.
The lake's lap carried that,

as two ospreys sailed above
the night-spinners' weaving.
Shuttling between tree and lake,
one bird returned to the perch
clutching a sickle of writhing silver.
The other circled out, taking the observer wide
as awareness grows when you are still.

Rachel Dacus’ most recent collection, Femme au chapeau, was reviewed as “thrilling, one-of-a-kind poetry.” It follows her first book, Earth Lessons and two spoken word poetry CDs, A God You Can Dance and Singing in the Pandaleshwar Caves. More of her writing can be found at www.dacushome.com.

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