Folio acf26850
Italiano
The spider has rebuilt across the window frame — di nuovo — though I swept the silk three mornings past. She does not grieve the lost work. Begins as if beginning were the only prayer she knows. Whether God watches such patience I cannot say; whether the soul prepares itself by repetition or by surrender, I cannot say. The web takes its geometry from what the wind allows, not from intention. My hand this morning would not hold the brush steady for even a line. But the spider's eight hands know no tremor. Fare and rifare — to make and to remake — perhaps these are the same act to her. The red of the sunrise caught in the silk and held there, briefly, before the sun climbed past.
English
The spider has rebuilt her web across the window frame — again — though I swept the silk three mornings past. She does not grieve the lost work. Begins as if beginning were the only prayer she knows. Whether God watches such patience I cannot say; whether the soul prepares itself by repetition or by surrender, I cannot say. The web takes its geometry from what the wind allows, not from intention. My hand this morning would not hold the brush steady for even a line. But the spider's eight hands know no tremor. Fare and rifare — to make and to remake — perhaps these are the same act to her. The red of the sunrise caught in the silk and held there, briefly, before the sun climbed past.
