Amos the Spider

Weaves his web of darkness

Across the flat face of the slow summer sun.

Could this have been my Auntie Frances' front yard?

Or maybe the skeletal frame of my mother's birth house in Ten Town, Illinois?

He looks down at me, a non-spinner, dwelling in the grass

Beneath his work of art.

It vaults above me like the ceiling of a chapel.

He would like to pose a question

That has plagued him for all of his suns and moons:

“What is it about you art-less creatures that so puzzles yet amuses me?”

But we cannot even touch each other, much less speak.

Too bad, for I too have questions for him.

                    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~