Gossamer strands catch the light in their sticky web stretched between the limbs of a tree old and gnarled. Remnants of the morning dew cling for their lives, hoping desperately not to fall to an untimely SPLAT across the sidewalk floor.
But the spider is nowhere to be found. Having abandoned this bed long ago, a web which no one dares to destroy because it mirrors those intricate, silken dream weavers one will find in a New Age store. We leave to web to catch our hopes and dreams as we sleep-walk through the daily grind, marching numbly to work and school and grocery stores when the fridge has gobbled up the milk. We surely could not have drunk it all ourselves.
In light breezes, the sturdy web barely wavers, and each morning, I admire the craftsmanship which holds it intact for weeks now. Why another spider doesn’t claim this masterpiece for his own, I don’t know or pretend to understand. I can’t put my thoughts to that of a spider. It creeps along on eight legs, constructing webs and eating flies. Where is goes beyond that, I cannot fathom. Or make sense of the patterns it creates with the silk it shoots and dangles through the air, woven artistically in designs where we can only hope our dreams will stick and survive the fangs of a beady little spider who waits in the shadows to devour them whole.
– Written by Miss A on April 16, 2012