New year comes on eight legs
and lifts them to test the air and taste the wintermoth -
but the moth is a sweet moon dancer...
and spider a starving lurker, or worse, a hungry walker.
With dusty fluttering wings in my ears –
no, its not the wind
it’s the foolery of the short-lived
as they make their mark early and quick
flying fiercely at the moon or sun
at dizzy heights to be crisped and ruined –
to land – they come – to ends again –
landing softly in outstretched webs.
I wait safe & sound:
a personal guarantee to live long.
Cocooned in a stringy nest,
ravenous.
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