Web Making

If I could watch
invisible wanderings.
Attach a spider’s thread
to each person entering,
and see from the beginning
their strands collected in a web.
A house filling with the silk
of every step taken,
day by day,
until flame or hurricane,
or age takes away the walls
and leaves tapestries of sunshine,
shadow, falling, stepping,
turnings like a carousel,
love and breathing intertwined,
of what is or was,
then ask,
does Providence leave things
like this,
recorded in its cataclysms,
spun beautifully,
of wanderings by us
through time?