The Net

Into this net of leaves, green as old glass That the sun fondles, trembling like images In water, this live net, swung overhead From branch to branch, what swam? The spider’s thread Is less passive, where it appears to float Like a bright hair clinging to the wind’s coat. Hot at work, history neither schemes nor grieves Here where the soaking dead are last year’s leaves, And over them slung, meshed with sun, a net No creature wove, none frantically tried to fret. The huge weight of time without its sting Hangs in that greenly cradling woof. A wing Has caught there, held. Held. But not to stay, We know, who, how slowly, walk away.