it's the day where i'm pouring coffee for hope. too many dead trees slipped through my hands today, inky and crisp. is there a planet where the dreamers don't cry upon waking up to light? juvenile orb weavers are staking claims along the hedge by my car, and i watch them hunker down on silk, tense to instinct alone. great grandmothers sophia and olivia appear through the distinctively coloured generations: grey and rusted exoskeletons. i try not to get emotionally attached while the spiders are so young. come summer, i will name this fresh clutter of arachnids. the coffee is drunk, and i'm not. perhaps night will dream me to trees who write their memories on my skin, too. i'll wake up on this planet, see the light, and cry anyway.