Monday, May 26, 2008

spider

There's a spider web by the entrance to the garden shed. It forces me to duck my head and twist my shoulder each time I go in and and out, but inevitably I end up striking it. The fine gossamer threads tangles in my hair, tickling my cheek or sticking to my shirt. Hollowed out shells of various insects crackle and pop like an entomology lesson gone bad as I try to pull myself from the sticky tangles. Each time I break the threads, stubbornness and resolve drives her to weave it larger and larger, spinning relentlessly until it expands more and more.
The web has weathered rain and wind. She has worked to build it during cold nights and warm days, patiently labouring away to unravel her yarn. It glints in the daylight, shimmers seductively in the setting sun, drops of dew glisten like gems in the morning. Toiling for survival, it is her entire world stretched before her. The fine sensors on her feet tuned explicitly to every minute vibration of each fine strand of silk, she waits patiently for her prey to tangle itself before feeding.

She snared me much the same way. She laid out her designs and waited for that moment when I wandered in. It was futile to resist. Every night I fall asleep to the rhythm of her breathing and the fine hairs tickling my nose. Every morning I stir awake to her soft whispers off "I love you" and she will scream each time she sees a spider crawl along the wall or scuttle across the ceiling.

She hates spiders.

1 comment:

Calisto-Demon said...

The fine tuning of beauty that lingers in her web, lingers in His woman. Each strand a fine line of words and images as she gives her heart with each word, as does the spider give her heart with each strand. A soft silkiness she weaves, stronger then steel some say. As are words her web, she holds Him to her. Spiders are that of the Artisans of the wild as is she an Artisan of words.

And He will hold her, soothe her fears and chase away the spiders that crept into her life.

Among men and women, those in love do not always announce themselves with declarations and vows. But they are the ones who weep when you're gone. Who miss you every single night, especially when the sky is so deep and beautiful, and the ground so very cold.It isn't possible to love and part ... You can transmutate love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you. I know from experience that the poets are right: love is eternal.

His Tainted Vixen