by Ethel Mortenson Davis
It is because
the earth is tilted
this time of year,
the sun brightest at sunrise,
October light exceptional,
that I can see
silver threads strung
across my path
among the oldest trees,
thousands of gleaming strings
made by tree snails or slugs —
trails of lubricant
caught by sunlight
in a mathematical moment;
glistening chains we put
around our necks
to take home with us
to put in our favorite drawer —
the one labeled “DISCOVERIES”—
there in the back of our mind.
