Gossamer thoughts, gossamer things weaved as
sliken nightgowns with quarter moon kisses,
lurking with left handed promises
with secret eyes and au pair wishes.
In morning memories, school girl, you and sun
rise, maybe mantraing,"Thy will be done."
Gossamer days, gossamer nights envision
dawn and dusk as tenacious myths begotten
by Genesis and Revelation.
Spider (Greek astronomers gave no constellation)
Mayan's Orion* for celestial landings
and only seen at a bird's eye viewing
or mountains or planes---you always succumb
to "Thy will be done" by your demure designs.
Gossamer thoughts, gossmer things, love,
you, too, shall pass, from a school boy's mind,
not thinking of you until dawns efface
old webs and dusks become Penelope's face
of quiet desperation, imploring,"Where? When? Why?"
I'm now spinning webs spelling,"Goodbye, goodbye."
While expiring, your nightgown creases...
You're sleeping Arachne's and Selene's schemes
with gossamer dreams and gossamer needs,
while stars weave around quarter moon promises.