Ann Arbor Review


Duane Locke
Elisavietta Ritchie
Sam Cornish
Alan Britt
Shutta Crum
Joseph McNair
Geoffrey Philip
Lazlo Slomovits
Gerald Clark
Chris Lord
Coleman Barks
Marisella Veiga
Joanie Freeman
Dave Etter
Steve Barfield
Michael D. Long
Karyn M. Wolven
Running Cub

Silvia Scheibli


Wrapped in the womb of night
The dawn greets me,
I, coming to it from
A slumbering state.
When colors begin to appear
Out in the sky and all around me
Brightening and lightening
As it clears away
My dreams and thoughts
That scurried through chambers within.
Now I welcome the freshness,
The clarity of the dawn.


There in the silken strains is the busiest of all
Working his way up and down to create his web
A web of interwoven strains spiraling about
With design unsurpassed by man or creature.

The thought that goes into the details of his work,
The focus, the attention, the moves and symmetry,
Spinning a piece without a loom, without the tools,
Balancing as he creates his patterns so unique.

Taking into account the greater picture around,
Taking into account the very need for his survival
Depends on where and when he creates his web;
Then his victims are caught up in the beautiful silk.

Mostly unaware of how their capture has imprisoned
Their bodies and souls for the duration of any struggle,
For the duration of what is left of their very existence;
The struggle itself tightens their soft prison bars.

Then how long does it take for the king of this domain
To concur his prey, to satisfy his hunger, the very need
That all living creatures share on this complicated orb.
But when looked at and examined closely we gasp
At the very nature, the order of living, breathing.

Joanie Freeman, Miami


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