In the grey, a fragile truth I saw. A web, all wet and still, but a world of work. Each drop was a word, a soul, a sun.
The light is caught in the wet thread, spun across the boundary where the dark wood meets the morning sky. It is a silver snare, a delicate geometry woven in the hush before the world wakes. Each bead of dew holds a universe—a lattice of water and light that transforms a simple thread into a gate, a trap, and a home.
“Each drop is a world’s whole meaning.”