Spiders

I do not kill the quiet ones,

those patient architects of air,

spinning silk from unseen places,

lacing corners with their care.

They are watchers in the rafters,

threading hunger into art,

casting lines so fine, so fleeting

holding secrets in the dark.

But sometimes, cupped in gentle hands,

I set them free beyond my door—

to weave their webs in open spaces,

to live much larger than before.

Flies once reckless in the sunlight

dance too close and fate they meet,

wrapped in threads so fine, so silent,

cradled to a deathly sleep.

And I, beneath their quiet kingdom,

stand in awe of what they show–

fragile threads entrapping souls

silver strands that don’t let go