It is the season of tiny spiders, when it’s nearly impossible to pass through the yard without walking into their webs and finding them in my hair and beard. Those I notice, I help out onto a nearby leaf so they can continue about their business. Those I don’t, crawl out later on their own, or I comb them into the bathroom sink. A few days ago, one crawled from the counter into some philodendron cuttings we keep in a quart jar on top of the cabinet. A short while later it had built a new web and was waiting for a meal. Afraid it would starve, I eased it down with a little piece of wood we brought home a year or two ago from the beach and took it outside again. By fall, those that survive will be much larger and lodged in bigger, stronger webs. The webs will hold the house in place through the November winds. They will catch fir needles and yellow birch leaves. The neighbors’ thoughts will be in them. And mine will have blown into webs in other yards. From there they will be washed onto the ground. In spring, they will sprout again as dreams. And we will know each other’s as our own.
Just a breeze to move the web
that holds the gem — enough to be
the timely measure of a man.
Recently Banned Literature, April 15, 2013
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