The Movement of Thread

You sleep. I watch you sleep.
The spider waits in web watching
the thin, silver thread (the strength
of what she's weaved) anticipates movement
before there is death.

Love lights down like the shadow
of body and does not stir the air.

There are memories of movement;
the heart's eye focused in, tensed,
its shoulder muscles flexed. The bird

spotted the spider, dove in quickly

and missed.

No comments: