Spring Spiders

Sibbie O'Sullivan

Lifting their pale legs cornered by sleep,
the Spiders come alive.
Flimsy as hairnets,
they roll from the crotch of the wall,
clinging downsideup to the ceiling.

Though they would pop like pimples,
their delicate blond rumps careless of tragedy,
I will not kill them.

Some sleep in the sun like old men,
lost in a time of when.
Some, newborn stalk past the cutting board,
their fuzzy courage set on seasons outside this kitchen.

These I watch, in their stilted carriage,
as they move toward the shine of the window.
One light limb over another they noonwalk
on its green reflection till the full sun
makes them warm and invisible.

I think they have passed through a rift as thin
as a baby's vein,
but at night I see them again,
round as popcorn,
waiting.

 

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