Still: The Journal

That artistic, giant yellow and black garden spider

is a dangerous woman. 

When male spiders court her 

plucking the edges of her web,

they always have a contingency plan

an escape route

in case she is not flattered

by their careful 

advances, 

and instead seeks 

to kill him

and eat him. 

Care must be taken by people, too. 

One should speak no name 

around her web, 

because if she spells it out 

with her zigzag weavings,

they say, 

that person 

will die soon. 

Superstitious of disturbing her web, 

I have surrendered the far right corner of my garden

to her.

At night, after watering,

I press myself flat 

against the house 

to pass

as she restrings to snare her evening supper.

I keep my distance, 

some cherry tomatoes drop from vine 

to the soil

in the corner I cannot reach, 

now hers alone.  

I think I understand—

though she will die with the first frost

of fall, 

after a full summer of webbing

at dusk, 

consuming those centers

only to rebuild 

each morning 

with fresh silk, 

she holds on for as long

as she can. 

She has an egg sack to protect. 

Silken souls

in the thousands 

tiny as dust

wrapped up tight 

until their spring exodus,

soon to be

writers of creation themselves.