How delicate the silken strands you spin,
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woven precise in their symmetry, a tapestry
construct wherinyou make your home, resourceful
spider. Lips part slightly in smile, my earthen
brown gaze ponders upon your agile weaver's dance.
In native tribal tales, Grandmother Spider spins
the loom of fate: Creatrix, Preserver, Unmaker.
She who bestowed the written word to her people.
Glancing down at the pen within my hand, my poet's
soul weaves also, spinning ink like silk. At times
it's simple as drawing breath into one's lungs...
at other times I cough and stutter, thoughts
entangled in neurotic, sticky cross strands.
Casting a second glance at the eight-legged acrobat
treading a graceful dance in the eastern corner of
my sixth-floor studio, memory springs forth to a
dream of night's past, in the arms of my beloved,
evenings of laughter, passion and compassion entwined
at his apartment in Ann Arbor, an old-school slumber
party, purest sweetness and delight as we partook of
Dionysian favors and revelries, I felt I could smile
forever, gaze eternally into eyes the hue of herbal
tea, listen without end to dark resonant melodies of
his musician's voice...Mercy...as we lay together and
consciousness faded, there came bidden to my psyche
an image of a not so itsy-bitsy arachnid architect,
present beneath the bed we shared, 'till in my ear
was whispered a phrase, gentle as the soft breeze of
midsummer. "Have patience, impetous Tigerlily,
remember the cycle of balance in nature. The gifts
of my thread surpass and measure time. Rebirth is a
tenous road, but yours is strength enough to walk it."
Dashing forth in excess haste one runs the risk of
falling ensnared on cross-strand webbing meant for
insects and prey. Such is not my purpose. Drawing a
breath, I pace myself upon a mental tightrope, touch
pen to paper, and weave dreams and passions into