The spider starts rebuilding
in the middle of a storm which
you tell me is a beautiful woman
in India shaking a silk Dhoti
after washing, the quiet claps
of damp cloth making thunder
to shudder-rattle the windows.
Not half an inch of rain
since July first, I was told yesterday
by the farmer selling asparagus
thick as a thumb. His crops
will be flooded and joyous tonight,
with the rain which is the water
shed into that far-off river in sheets
from the garment's weft and warp.