Spring cleaning has me in the darkest corner of the sunroom with a stick in hand, wrapping old webs around the far end like drab cotton candy.
The spiders staked their claim last fall, orb-weavers, I think. I didn’t get too close, and nights were longer and cooler and spent indoors, so I let them have the corner.
When I reclaim it on a warm May day, the abandoned webs cling listlessly to wall and screen and bench and reach as if alive for the oar I offer from a far shore.
The weaver of the orb mustn’t mind rebuilding her home. It seems to be the point, to start again from the beginning.
The cardinal builds a new nest every year, sometimes even twice. Moles burrow constantly and don’t use the same tunnel again.
The hostas in my front yard disappear completely each winter and always come back, from a tiny green peek through the dirt to a maturity even grander than before, fueled by energy both fresh and remembered.
Everything starts over. Life is not always added to. It is sometimes begun anew.
Deb Moore 