Grace

When the great spider goddess, Spifica,

Leaps from the center of her web

And grabs the next victim,

Her nimble and dexterous feet

Tumble and roll the body,

As sharp, precise stabs,

From hidden fangs,

Deliver the stupefying potion

That lowers all vital signs

To a point of unconsciousness

Just above death.

Spinnerets at the abdomen

Spray out sticky, white strands

That are gathered by knowing feet

And a white shawl is woven

Around the pale body,

While it is spun on its axis.

The encased form is deposited

Like a full bottle of wine

Somewhere on Spifica’s web,

Where it will hang, waiting,

Waiting for the day that hunger

And the sucking reflex

Will kick in

And cause Her, again, to return

And reclaim Her prize,

Draining the bottle, just a little,

Savoring the fruity, mellowed tannins

Of ‘Life-Force’

With hints of black cherry and chocolate

And a ‘finish’ that leaves the palate

Engaged, if unrequited.

The bottle, a little less full,

Is hung again on the rack of the web,

Its succulence still protected

By the husk of paralysis.

The juice will be undisturbed now,

Given time to age.

More ‘bottles’ join it,

While She goes on ‘collecting’, tasting,

And discarding the empties,

Some of them hanging on filaments,

Hollow corpses spinning

On the breeze like pinwheels.

A young boy approaches the web

With curiosity and a stick in his hand.

With a whirl of the stick,

Like a magician casting a spell,

The web is destroyed

And Spifica is sent flying.

In the shambles,

The boy, innocently inquisitive,

Discovers the silk shrouded capsules

And begins to pull them out

Of their fallen matrix.

He stacks them neatly

In a row on the ground.

Gently, one by one, he opens them

As if they were presents

From under a Christmas tree.

A bee……a moth…… a cicada…… a butterfly……

Respectfully, he lays them down

On a piece of bark in the sun

And then he leaves…

Warmed by the noonday sun,

Life awakens with sleepy eyes

And is carried aloft on wings

That unfold from a dream.