In the Season of Spiders
I have walked through webs,
Complex designs of the weavers
Who sleep the day away,
Resting from their nocturnal vigilance.
It is that time
When cicada still sing
And a gibbous moon
Accompanies one
Through the night.
I do not begrudge them
Their night work,
Yet I have taken the vacuum
To their resting places,
For fear of entanglement,
Their little ones ready
To burst from the nest
Float on the wind toward distant places,
Denied their future.
I have often wondered
What special silk
Spiders would make,
And how a lowly worm
Was chosen by the Chinese
For their trade.
If I could wear a spider-sewn cape,
The spectral blaze of stars glistening in its folds,
I’d fly on arachnid wings ―
Cousin to the bat,
Companion to the Moon,
A night traveler
In the season of spiders.
