by John Grey (November 2024)
The Spider Laments
–
If only dew would gild my silk,
my eight-legs tucked beneath
my exoskeleton,
then I’d quiver on my fluttering cross
like a morning gem.
Before I became hunter
and swinger through my trembling vines,
I’d be this beautiful thing,
perched and angling for the sun.
Before I trapped the crisp beetle,
the unwary fly, in my grim shudder
of a net, I’d bask in the peach glow
as if this web was the nerves
of an invisible body
and I was the quaking heart of it.
Before I scooped up the accidental prey
at the fringes of my trellis,
I’d be reeling in the greater quarries,
the air, the light, the morning itself.
Yes, if glistened like a jewel,
I’d stop you cold
in the morning’s warm.
I’d be blinding, beguiling and wondrous.
You’d take a moment,
to admire my sparkling beauty.
Ah, such precious time
for my fluttering web.
before you tramped on down the trail
and shredded it.
–
–
–
Along this Road
–
Seeing deer
and an apple tree,
a river sometimes,
lost often,
feeling nameless,
yet knowing pines
on first name terms,
listening to the landscape,
placing a crown
on the head
of even the most belligerent
of farmers,
raising wildflowers
to their proper rank
in the universe,
growing some
but not taking from
the surrounds,
finally vanishing,
into what
has always been here,
not green, not rooted,
not fluttering, not flying,
yet to all intents, a citizen.
–
–
–
In Late November
–
Leaves go where the wind sends them,
flutter and fall, but no place is permanent,
not when the next fierce blow will scatter all the more.
Sky’s gray and threatening, but, instead of downpour,
sends a single flake, like another leaf, unwitting, unknowing.
–
It’s late November, the cusp of cold and bitter,
trees stripped bare and houses bundled up.
It’s winter’s stealth, not yet its march.
Drizzle returns. Patches of snow melt.
Hereabouts, every day is its own season.
–
It’s time for stage setting, not drama.
Small things are moved around like items on a checkerboard.
Anyone can play.
Everyone around here will.
=
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