My path tracks words that leap synapses; emerging the son of Kronos caught his wife
in his arms. There, underneath them, the divine earth broke into young, fresh grass, and
into dewy clover, crocus and hyacinth, thick and soft as Gaia's"hair in sweet disorder."

A few weeks ago I was drawn into a river's raging waters.
Today a spider's web strung across the trail, unseen but
for a glint of sun lighting a single thread, grabs my throat.