tiny lightning green spider
round abdomen
spiny head
front forelegs reaching sensing
splayed back legs twitching rushing
behind it a
shining filament trailing in the air
shiver of light
a puddle
just a sheen of water on the asphalt
pooling from a narrow line of liquid
streaked through by wheels of shopping carts
pause
the urge to cross
where?
why?
measure the strength of the tiny spider desire
by how long it waits
front forelegs reaching stretching
at the meniscus of the water
glimpse the angled thread
stir the tiny spider will
the rush
the skitterflash
the miracle
it’s on the other side
was it the wind?
did a cart wheel
pull that invisible web?
did the angels
shrink down
to cup their hands into steps
for eight pin-dot feet
and the rapid
levitated
crossing?
oh nebulae lean in
oh quarks lift up your heads
oh anxious human
shifting on stiff legs
glasses fogged by masked breathing
feeling the spring wind
funneled through the parking lot
where the line stretches
six feet by six
look close
is the same as looking wide
listen small
is the same as hearing deep
swing round
to the rhythm of the dance
and the measure of your desire
is found in the waiting
and the stirring of your will
rushes the miracle
and the hands of the angels
move your feet across the water
for
the maker of the spider
is the maker of the world
and the world revolves in wonder
so much bigger—and so much smaller—
and there are other eyes than yours
who never see the spider
but see the real and manifold radiance
of the stories they are living
crossing
branching
weaving
still and moving
and if the essence of the spider,
sweet nectar of the moment,
can be found and sipped
in all the moments in the history of time
and all the spaces
of a living breathing world
then will we not all walk
around as drunk and spinning
laugh and fall in the grass
and feel the
amplitude of life
let me show you
