December 04, 2002

Funnel Web

Death on eight thin legs
scuttles through the mulch
beneath the Chaucer rose.
Her black back alive with
minute passengers,
she glints in the sun –
a moving pebble of obsidian.

Sacrificial knives were fashioned
from that same dark stone,
then used to send a chosen soul
into the endless void.
Unlike the wielder of the knife
She has no preference and only strikes
for sustenance and preservation.

Nor have I a choice.
One bite could be my end
if, inadvertently, my fingers stray
within her range,
while testing dampness in the soil.
Thus it is, with some regret,
I crush her ‘neath my booted heel.

Posted by Midus at 07:16 PM