chocolate is a verb

colors, flavors, whims and other growing things

Tag Archives: spiders

found poem: to address

season-work

cotoneaster juniper fog
 
Unusual weather has settled upon us. After a run of perfect autumn days, fog crept in. First, just for a morning visit. Then morning and evening. Then just fog all fog.

As the maples blaze copper and red and the last of the green tomatoes ripen on the kitchen counter, fog glazes every surface with its speckled dampness. In the first days it seemed to hold warmth. But now it carries a deep chill, sends us searching for sweaters, resigns us to the tick and roar of the heater and infuses our conversations. Is summer, we sigh, really over?

And everywhere, spider webs. As if readying for Halloween, the slow, fat-bellied spiders of autumn have knitted up the garden, dropped their silken ropes from eaves and slung nets along fences. The morning’s lingering darkness reveals a pale patchwork of webs high on the telephone pole, caught in the street light’s wan pinkish glow.

The spiders instruct me with their industry.

gardeners…

peas and elephant garlicA big-bodied spider has taken up residence in the front corner of the living room, under the edge of the chest. It may be a wolf spider. It was out this morning when I brought in the newspaper, but when I approached with my plastic container to see if I could catch it, it darted back under the chest.

Foiled by the spider, my attention was drawn up and out the window, where a young buck was browsing. I stepped back outside to see that there were two young bucks, brothers, their antlers velvety and perhaps 12 inches tall. They were unperturbed by my watching, nibbling a few bits in my front garden, then moving across the driveway to the neighbor’s more delectable purple clematis. They continued up the sidewalk, their black tails hanging above narrow haunches, their delicate hooves making the faintest tapping on the sidewalk as they strolled and sniffed and browsed their way up the block.

Back in the vegetable garden, where the fava beans and peas and elephant garlic are reaching upward, I see that where the pea vine touches the wire fencing, the leaves are torn and the peas munched.

dawning…

birdsnest spruce, early MayIt is so spring.

The sun creeps over the backyard fence to set the crabapple tree alight, a blaze of bright magenta.
The spruce is fringed with tiny tongues of green. Lilacs fatten in the neighbors’ yards. Robins warble at first light. Spiders cast their hungry nets.

A dog lays on her back on the grass, legs in the air, and twists back and forth.

sticky, too

spider silk
The windows snap, adjusting to the warmth of the sun’s first rays. The spiders are back, rainbow glints of silk flung between leaves, across windows. Belayed in a nearly-invisible curtain down the screen door, dozens of tiny spiderlings descend from a nest. A slender thread cast on breeze and trust stitches together the middle of nowhere.

A speck of dirt on the floor walks away.
—–
spider silk photo

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