Spider's Lace

 In dawn’s soft hush, the meadow breathes,

A silver thread among the leaves.
No trumpet sounds, no footsteps tread—
Yet there it waits, a woven thread.

A spider’s lace, so finely spun,
Catches whispers of the rising sun.
Each strand, adorned with morning’s grace,
Wears dew like diamonds, on its face.

Tiny orbs of glistening light,
Hung like stars that braved the night.
Jewels not forged by flame or hand,
But gifted by the sleeping land.

The breeze bows low, in quiet awe,
At nature’s art without a flaw.
No crown could gleam so soft, so true—
As that small web, dressed up in dew.