I don’t believe in god, but I believe in grace. A warm sun that will shine hot. The furious ecstasy of tiny pale green spiders rushing away as I pull weeds. I have broken their houses and I’m sorry. I wish they could carry their homes on their backs like snails, but I know they will rebuild what I broke knowing it will be broken again. Spiders are pragmatic.
The sting of nettles pierces a leather glove. Nettles regret nothing. It’s my own fault I wasn’t more cautious in the face of their ferocity. I have gotten what I deserve.
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