Poetry for January

Man did not weave the web of life, he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself.
—Chief Seattle

She spins by moonlight,
weaving wet strands
from mailbox to brass knob,
binding my door shut with her silk.

Each morning I claw at the web,
unraveling her mending from the night
before. She watches from behind
a clapboard, waits for darkness.

What is this web to her
that she will not surrender
but patiently repair my damage?
Am I connected to its strands

like the crumpled moth trapped
in the sticky tangle in my hand,
or like a nightmare snared
in a dream-catcher? What is this thing

I rip apart—some kind of primitive
survival map whose language has been lost
to me? Just as her instinct is to claim
this space, mine is to tear down obstacles.

Neither of us will back down. One has to go,
be banished from this struggle over territory.
Perhaps this is the way all wars begin—
small battles fought in strands of gossamer.

Regina Murray Brault lives in Burlington, Vt.