The Heat of Decay

The spider outside my kitchen door
weaves her silver threats again
between the new shoots of green
that pretend to be spring,
a new start,
gathering dew on these delicate strands
of belief in something I can’t see with my eyes
but know in the tremors that arrive
from the earth in my feet
and explore their way,
like voyagers in the stream of my blood
and climb into my bones—
knees and knuckles bruised
with so much struggle to rise—
make the way out of the trees
into a clearing where light and open air
might bring relief from the pain.

If I bend down to where my eyes are level
with the translucent body
and eight legs dancing in the sun,
I can see the craft of fear take shape.

She is a Master--
using her body to survive
even when her work is destroyed
by the wind or inconsiderate trappings
of words like death. She knows what to do
at these endings and is not afraid
to quickly move in,
wrap the unsightly shell of disappointment
into a neat package,
and move on to the necessary
repair and beauty.

How can anyone blame her for trying
to catch the stars when she lives
so close to the heat of decay
in the stitches of her home?