Old grey friend

Old Grey Friend

My old friend       makes another visit to my place.
She weaves a new guide wire to her web.
It catches the morning light
in tensile, tightrope fashion,
attached under a  cedar clapboard –
A suspension bridge from her dwelling to mine.
Certainly she sees me,  even through
the long window as together we work:
Now she patiently waits.
I create lines with a pen,
the click of a keyboard, pause to consider –
       compose a thought…
pick up my cell to make a call –
       sip cold coffee –
stretch and stand and sit again,
fill      space in Time’s calendar.
This common grey house spider
seems to uncommonly know me –
Better in some ways than I might know myself.
In that moment of synanthropic industry
we are connected by threads spun from life.
Some day’s wind, or rain, or errant passerby
makes the work a challenge, yet
when broken       we rise up
to new lines each new morning.
The silken tie reminds me how easily
Time can break    lines and leave    them
Remnants to drift away.
She keeps her connection spare
but always there. I can depend on her vision
and her will to keep on building,
my old eight-legged friend’s tenacity –
reminds me, renews me.
My old grey girl has children to think of…
her lines flung forth sing forth tomes played by
the fingers of this morning’s airy hands:
Our time is love!
Our time is love!
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