I want to shift my shape and stalk
across a jeweled dew-dropped web
spinning a spiral tunnel as I walk
all corners anchored firm to fight the ebb
and push of errant breeze or stormy blow
snug against all tricks Fate might deliver.
When it’s finished I will back on tip-toe
down my chute, stop to sever silken thread
curb my hunger patiently, crouch in a
waiting trance, anticipating nothing.
I rely on heaven-sent sweet manna.
Some hasty flighty creature on the wing
will bumble in my net and stick there fast
to offer me refreshment and repast.
©2000 Christine Irving