Ten thousand hatchlings
stride the web. In this place
between the leaves, one mother
— alone, cards a generation.
Soon she will die — depleted.
Soon hatchlings will drink
from her legs. This must be so
— as all that is spindled,
all that is skeined.
All this was woven
so long ago.
Image: Steve Johnson on Unsplash
Devon, an intricately spun and woven articulated poem; as eloquent as a spiderweb when dawn’s first light ensnares its beauty.
Thank you Lance. I’ve been watching and protecting this spider and her egg sack for a week, only to discover that her children would devour her. And while there is a certain revulsion in considering such a fate, I believe that there is much we can gain from understanding the sacrifices our elders make for our benefit.
My utmost pleasure, Devon. That’s very thoughtful of you to do so. Not much gratitude on the part of her offspring though. However, you’re quite right! Peace and light.
Peace and Light, Lance. Peace and Light.
Sincerely grateful, Devon. Blessings.