An unusual spider, pure white it was,
came to our garden this year
and spun a web, a cloud hung in a carrageenan hedge,
a late snow that fell during a night
when words weren’t enough. And as you paced alone
you recalled an offered bouquet of white roses,
white the color of forgiveness, he’d said, and you knew then
something precious was about to disappear
come morning.
Hmmm. Gets me thinking about feeling – ominous. But still hard to articulate exactly. THAT’S good poetry! I’ve seen those little white spiders – creepy!
Thanks, Denise, I just saw one for the first time the other day and it crept into my poem. Heidi