The Minute Eclipse of Dew

On the patient canvas, an uncertain gem,
a liquid weight, a lens of stretched light,
round mirror that scatters the dawn.
The thread trembles, a suspended promise.

Not human fiber, but spider silk,
measures the moment, curves every grip.
Then a yielding, an arcane tremor,
releases the burden, a light farewell.

The sphere falls, instant without echo,
in the mute green, where nothing takes place.
A point of sky that grows blind,
before uniting with the shadow that flees.