Fragile Harvest

I dreamed I sat in a darkening room
with many others at long tables
making food from spider webs,
by stacking them with great care
one atop another
until a whiteness emerged,
solid as air, to fill the hollows
in my daily bread.

Eyes dimmed, face covered
with networks of age,
I follow the pathways
of shadow, filigrees of light
that morning spins from night.
With delicate bones
I reticulate sidewalks,
tracing imaginary threads,
one way first, then another,
like tatting lace,
my heart the shuttle
beating time.

I walk this web that will soon
catch death in its embrace.
But in this lean time:
I feast on breath.

-Kitty Yanson