OUTSIDE THE WINDOWS

Shadows of a spider
outside my window
up to the ceiling
by the rising pane
feeling like an outsider
just passing through
my doors
like a driven exile
or any stranger
no one ignores
as tiny drops of rain
float on an early hour
revealing doubled images
by my stopwatch
catching a bit of sun
arranging my hours
at the string of my day
in a morning prayer
without a rope of delay
watching a bocce player
throw the ball
along the troubled highway
concealed by wall flowers
he murmurs by the bridge
filled with muddy traffic
he retrieves the ball
near the fallen leaves
now turning brown
in a low ridge garden
near a mote of hope
without panic or guess
of pardon to survive
then retrieves the ball
in the upland glen
as I'm the only witness
writing it all down
as in psalm 45
a ready writer
with a lively pen.