About The Spider Poem
That This Is Not
Perhaps you're lucky I haven't written it.
They were too stout, those threads,
eleven thousand feet high
braving the wind through the pass
and the spiders - I can't tell you
about those spiders yet. They keep
spinning in my mind, new webbing,
enveloping themselves in layer after layer
of fur that shifts to the view
like a compounding of myths.
They're not prepared to be
exposed. They're waiting behind
eyes I can't quite look into
to pass through a winter only they
and a barren, rock-eyed mountain top
know so far. I can't touch them yet.
When I finally spin the tale of spiders
it will be something new,
but such ancient threads I'll use,
such old, old secrets of weaving
to mesmerize both watcher and weaver
that neither will ever again
fly free. Wait and see.
(reprinted with thanks from both Dacotah Territory
and St. Anthony Park Bugle)
