After the floodwaters rose and covered
the plains and valleys all you could see
along what used to be the river's edge —
a cast of trees shrouded in nets
woven by spiders who'd climbed upward
and up to keep from dying
Acacia and neem gnarled sheen
of the tree of heaven Ghostly in returning
light and in the soupy heat
Like smoke or veils made muddy
in suspended bridals Design of panicked
weaving that holds so they've survived
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
