Apologising to spiders

A web is flung in airy places, lines tossed to the wind; I have broken these silken, silver cords in the garden and the bush. In rooms where Rumplestiltskin weaves I find myself a clumsy giant: muttering, pulling sticky threads, apologising to spiders. Stamping down a sandy trail I did not see your castle loom; your fancy citadel of dreams is torn and clinging to my hair.