You know, I’ve locked eyes with killers in dark places.
Been sure I was a heartbeat away from oblivion more times than I care to remember.
Surrendered to those I was sure would do me harm.
But my baby girl, an infant with eyes of deep, plain truth, sometimes gives me a look that scares the shit out of me like nothing else ever has.
Right down to my marrow.
I wonder what that’s all about.
Spider perches and lets slip a filament in the breeze.
A strand of her web floating free.
In search of an anchor.
Where it lands, a spin of chance.
The spider pulls her line taught and begins construction.
Knowing only that a foundation has been found;
she builds her web.
She waits to learn that which the breeze has given.
Will the web feed her well?
Will it be brushed asunder at first light?
Will it hold firm and yet stay empty?
No way to know.
Still the spider weaves.
And waits to learn her fate.
Having done all she can.
And yet, perhaps, not near enough.
If so the wind decided.