Ways of Speaking
I’m weary of those who talk
in slogans stamped and packed
by someone else, like
long distance truckers paid to drive
without knowing the weight
hauled onto that dark highway.
I want to walk, instead
where I can read the body’s slow knowing.
Where each thing watched long speaks aloud.
A spider tossed by the breeze reaches one strand
thin as faith. As it takes hold she dances between twigs
and waits within a design both beginning and end.
When the web breaks she begins again
tiny legs speaking in ways
we’re meant to hear.
Laura Grace Weldon
Find this and other poems in my collection, Tending.