Delicate

“We might make love in some sacred place The look on your face is delicate.” —From “Delicate” by Damien Rice The storm had waned in the morning and left its marks on wrecked spider webs—the webs the old trees had welcomed like the nests the birds had built to nurse their hatchlings. A spider appeared from a tree hollow. It crawled through a twig hanging five feet above the ground and started weaving a new web. A skylark came to rest on a higher stalk as if to spy on the spider as the wind played a symphony of waves on the leaves surrounding...