A cool gust on a warm day.
A spider's web, woven of rays.
The gust splits the web in threads
and swings the spider on my head.
The spider walks up my brittle hair,
he and I sip the dawn's limpid air.

Strolling down the walkway green,
Spider asks how life has been.
“Such a clamour,” I confess—
and tell him of life's news-twined mess.
“Well, how about I rent you a little web?”
“Gracious Spider, I'm already tangled in debt.”
The cool wind weaves us through the grass.
Spider tips his hat and sways with sass.

The gust sings the sound of a song,
rising up from the still, blue pond.
Beside it, a robin sings of the skies vast,
Enticing my mind from its sooty tasks.
I feel a beat in the heart's cast,
and ask the robin of love's first dawn.
“That would be done better by the swan.”
The swan is swimming around in hearts—
her crescent neck drowns my burdened carts.

My watch stirs my mind to life’s load,
the gust pushes me out on the road,
where minted coins in silence hoard.
I run, tumbling, to reach work on time.
Midway, a child pleads for a dime.
I get him the sun-colored kite,
and the gust takes it to solar height.

Oh no, I forgot the work again.
My laden job dreams of a breezy reign.
In office, the boss huffs his wrath,
warning me I’m treading a downhill path.
As I take my seat by the glass pane,
my mind wandering in an untread lane,
I see the spider, on the kite, flying on the gusty vein.

The gust takes him higher still, out of greed’s grips.
The heart can’t be tamed by the mind’s whips.
The spider drifts where winds devise,
but gold ne’er mourns its master’s lies.
The heart shall be warm even with plain food—
not with gray parchments, but with joy crude.