Pattern for Death
Posted by Lanea on Friday, December 8th, 2006
The spider puzzles his legs and rests his web
On aftergrass. No winds stir here to break
The quiet design, nothing protests the weaving
Of taut threads in a ladder of silk:
He is clever, he is fastidious, and intricate;
He is skilled with his cords of hate.
Who can escape through the grass: The crane-fly
Quivers its body in paralytic sleep;
The giant moths shed their golden dust
From fettered wings, and the spider speeds his lust.
Who reads the language of direction? Where may we pass
Through the immense pattern sheer as glass?
Another bit of spidery goodness. Expect more on this theme. Oh, and promise to love James Still, or I will give you such a noogie.
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