One August I remember
the adobe heat that forgetting brings.
I played queen
at the tower window
searching the exact scaffold to hold my web
one steeple to another.
The trick was to welcome the ants even
when you can’t see them, so many stories below.
The cathedral was glitter-spired.
I took this as a directive:
Worship at the church where wounds are bandaged.
Weave carefully. Be humble.
I perched in the penthouse of a new grief,
pulled a tarot card.
It was a white bird with webbed crane feet
piercing the blue afternoon.
Other cards boast a proclamation: Fool,
they accuse, or Love.
Mine, whether warning or promise
said only Wild.