Arabella*

Dropping slowly in the unknown,

she twirls her sexy spinnerets,

reeling out a silver swing

in dauntless nanometers.

She suffers hunger, thirst,

twisting in the capricious breeze,

waiting for that one small puff

to lift her silken lifeline

to the other side.

Sanctuary.

How did she learn to trust the wind?

Arabella anchors her thread,

pumps her body dry

to build her expensive abode

out of ancient meat,

architectural ken.

Back and forth, round and round

the tightrope walker toils,

prompted by the design of the ages.

She may be tatting

the deterministic subtext of life

into her wispy home.

Ignoring the random acts of predators,

the child with a careless stick,

the evil one with matches,

she may be risking all

to create an existential platform

for her progeny.

She cannot know how this ends;

does not know that we believe

there have always been spiders

hanging in midair;

that our world will disappear

if she does.

I will be reluctant to brush her off my arm,

to pull her lacework from my face,

or sweep it aside, wrecked,

the next time I see the intrepid weaver,

because she knows better than I

how to trust the wind.

Sybilla 3/1/09

*Arabella was a spider who died

In an experiment aboard Skylab 3.