One night, my empty glass held a surprise. There at the rim were eight legs and big eyes.
As I'd been lost in my manuscript late one night, a new friend had moved into my empty glass.
We stared at each other a bit.
Which of us was more frightened? More envious?
Exploratory lines of silk already criss-crossed the sides of the glass.
It made me wonder how long I had been busy writing, that he could have spun so much silk.
Had I fallen asleep and was simply spinning a dream web of my own?
Laying lines, making plans
What world had he been constructing while I'd been constructing mine?
Outside, the first flakes of winter were falling.
Might as well have been a universe away to the little spider.
Would he survive until spring?
He wasn't the first spider to take up residence inside our home.
A potted plant would bore him rather quickly, that was certain.
Yet, he must have found sustenance within my four walls to have come this far.
I'll make you a deal.
Searching black eyes implored that I extend my hospitality.
Amazed at how many universes could be contained within each other, I took pause.
Whatsoever you do for the least of mine, that you do unto Me.
Let us remain together still
I set the glass down, giving my friend the freedom to decide.
He entertained himself around the smooth, clear walls awhile, then retired to his bed.
I wondered if I might sometime see his tiny little face again...
Poetry is a fresh morning spider-web telling a story of moonlit hours of weaving and waiting during a night.