The Tarantula's Journey

To meet in ways I had not thought possible,
not eye to eye, as of a vision of how this is,
but at eyes level, the whole brought into view.

The tarantula is drawn through the cold night,
innate torpor overcome by some swarming power
that moves him to me for my small time.

I watched the spider's exquisite slow journey
across my window, opened for the first time;
the exacting motions of his massive legs.

Time hangs its minutes on the window pane;
no clock I knew in the great dial of his frame
where ten hands keep their separate measurements.

He and I, fashioned together in this convergence,
come out of dust, risen to follow pathways here,
and our return, like all, must be received alone.

I have so many important questions to ask of you,
whose answers would fill the distance between us,
but what language is there to explain these truths?

An ebbing moon has lifted over the eastern ridge
pointing its own twin riddles toward the Earth,
this one leading toward your way, the other mine.