Poetry in an early-morning, late-summer, meadow muse:
The rainbow seeds from last evening’s slanted sun, just
before setting, spilled by thunder raindrops.
Then overnight their eggs hatched and in the dawn-fog climbed up
the laddered webs onto vines some lawn-lovers call weeds
disparagingly, but secret sharers see sky-blue stars,
Queen Anne’s Lace, common grass making Jacob’s ladder.
[And thanks to Mr W for the fine music--he recently played this track here nearby the meadow but prefers to go unnamed...]