Spider Stories

When we held hands you showed me spiders’ eyes.
They glowed when our flashlights crossed their paths
Like tiny beads of glass, clear glass, pin’s head marbles,
Nestled safe in the arms and beds
Of young dead leaves,
Unhinged from trees each autumn of my life.

Beneath that mottled grey-brown rug
Are the remnants of autumns that I do not remember,
Scraps of seasons that came before me.
Remains of days you saw,
Not visible to the naked human eye,
But maybe within the scope and scale of spiders
Scuttling through the pine bark balconies
And pebble corridors around our feet.

While we held hands you taught me night vision.
The art of seeing things in shades of black,
Of finding light in stars and phosphorescent lichen.
Most of all in spider’s eyes,
Which kept us from becoming completely lost
In the embrace of nighttime hours.