Regeneration Song

Waiting suspended, belly to the vast blue, a brown spider waits. Her invisible web spans the hand-width distance between two delicate hydrangia blooms, above the lush mass of leaves. Silent, patient and enduring, she waits.
Below her, a snail seeks shade, skating ever-so-slow on a silver, fragile path of his own making. After a night of grazing on the greenery, he glides into the dark to sleep, sealed tight in his home, digesting and growing during the day.
It is early morning summer day break and a promise of hot hangs in the air.
Dew tears run down the faces of calla lilly leaves. Those deep green hands stand cupped to the sky, gathering the night-sweat and channeling that harvest down stout stems to thirsty roots below. White stemware flowers tower stately above, each pointy end adorned with a glassy drop of dew.
I sit in my garden, quiet and patient as that brown spider, bathing in an ocean of birdsong. From tall trees, far and wide, birds sing and repeat endlessly.
The plants are singing also. They sing a slow song; notes of which will fall on the fertile ear of the world. Tiny orbs of life that will sprout and sing next year or the year after.