3. All things have been given to us for a purpose, and an artist must feel this more intensely.

“The cracks are how the light gets through.”

His long fingers stroked the delicate threading,
like a lover or a brother tracing the sharp line of a cheek,
preserving the memory of it for future days.

“Are you saying I’m cracked?”

“Never, my headstrong Arachne,” the dance-loving one laughed,
loving the fire that flashed in her night-dark eyes.
“I wouldn’t dream of saying such a thing!”

“You’d better not!” she scowled, scrunching up her nose,
as she flung some unfinished fleece at him
which he proceeded to tear with his panther-nimble fingers.

Then without warning a sopping, sandy black hound came
trundling through the daughter of Perse’s white door,
murex goo dripping from its great slathering yellow maw,
barking furiously about what had washed up on the beach.

Arachne shot a sudden fearful glance to her red companion
and asked, “Where’s Kloster?”