I stepped outside a bit today.
March is marching, restless, roaring.
Turbulent clouds tossing fickle
thin and wispy, dark and brooding.
For a few moments fey Sun makes space,
I also make space in time, and lion-like myself
seek out a warm spot for being.
Eyes close translucent red curtains.
Time stops. Heart stills. Skin warms.
Until at last my book sings louder than wind.
I stretch to find a small grey explorer
mountain climbing the steep green plastic of my own chair.
Idly I brush him away.
Spiders are all well and good in their place.
That place does not include my hair.
But spiders are made equipped of more inventive tools than I.
Silken cords release.
The grand adventurer sails around to land
on my other side.
Again I gently brush, no harm intended.
I watch amused, a para-sailing acrobat
Does he feel joy or is it merely survival?
A third landing, this time a mighty leap propels
New heights attained
Not plastic, but skin and fine blond hairs providing footholds,
eight at once,
The better to touch the sky, my dear.
Is he too small to realize the hand that gently launches
could quickly end his misadventure?
Effortlessly ending exploration in an instant.
The god of spiders smiles.
Another breath and blowing outward instead
and send him spinning, soaring, sailing
on further adventures in the sky.