Red Spider

Red spider has finally caught a something: a seed.
She hangs from her web like a roasted chicken.
For three days now she's built
web after web, from post to grey post
at the bottom of our back porch stairs.
The first one was too low and only the cats
could duck under those strands.
The storm wiped that one out.
The next one was midway
making me bow below her circles of life and death,
but my hand struck a line and
the web wound around her like a hammock.
She swung there all evening.
The third time, she stretched a string
all the way to the gate.
First one to enter the yard, me, had her
swinging, too free again.
Tonight, by a Druid Moon, half dark, half light,
she has made a web like a section of the golden gate
bridge; two strands form the point of the triangle
at the top of the porch.
The seed waves like a flag.
Rain drops roll from the web onto my paper,
drawing alien flowers with the black ink.
The long notched stems trail roots off the bottom of my page,
onto my legs.
Nothing is as we first planned it.