Spider

doesn’t remember,
doesn’t need to remember,
but it must have been when
she
was yet
only
a puff blown egg,
floating endlessly through endless sleeping space,
that a morning breeze
lifted her through a weep hole
into the casing
of my window
where she was implanted,
and
became spider.

We are not what we seem.

That was in spring.
Now fall comes on.
The spider’s large and sleek and black with summer harvest.
Here in the cold red sun,
she will shrivel.

We are not what we seem.

And so the spider,
death impending,
waiting,
dreams,
and in her dream
she spins the white egg stuff of yet another web
in which,
as nucleus,
she will implant herself,
and become spider.

We are not what we seem to be.


Copyright © 2006 by Darby Mitchell

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