Silver Filigree

Travers Charron

Before the day unbuttons its sky,

while morning’s breath still clings to the grass, I find it—

a single web,

threaded between two branches, a silver filigree

trembling in dew.

Each strand,

so thin I dare not blink, holds

the soft breath of the waking earth.

No grand cathedral could match

this tender architecture—

woven by instinct,

lit by grace,

enduring the weight of a single drop without breaking.

I stop,

breath caught, knowing I am the first to come this way.

The trail is laced shut,

a gate spun in secret hours.

I hesitate,

a clumsy giant before a sacred thing.

For a moment,

I stand—small, unworthy—

aching to preserve what I must undo.

“I’m sorry,”

I whisper,

before the spell is torn.

Behind me,

the broken strands sway,

gathering dew like tears,

and the mute earth folds over the wound.

The web is gone,

but the reverence remains—

clinging to my skin

like mist,

like memory

More from Travers Charron ↓

• @traverscharron on Substack
• His tanka and haiku collection, Glass Shadows, is available now.

Mentioned in this episode:

Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem Only

Write After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.

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