spider silk

Good morning, tiny spider.
I see that overnight,
you’ve made the thinnest of tightropes
beside my kitchen sink
between the soap dispenser
and the window ledge.
There you perch,
right in the center.
I actually thought you were
a tiny ant caught in spider silk
until I looked closer.
You are not safe here.
I gently lift you
on a small piece of cardboard
from the recycle bin.
I hope you don’t run up my arm,
because as small as you are,
I’m afraid I would instinctively,
and quickly,
brush you off,
and that might be a traumatic event
for you.
So as I head for the back door,
I’m glad to see that you stay put—
for a second.
Then you skitter to the edge of the cardboard
and bungee jump off,
spinning your own lifeline as you dive.
At first I think you’ve gone to the floor,
but, no, there you are,
dangling from your silken thread.
You ride there,
swaying gently as I open the door
and step outside.
I place you, string first,
at the edge of an empty bucket,
trusting that through your day of
adventures,
you’ll find a safe place to settle.
Godspeed, tiny spider.
If you should ever come back
to visit my kitchen,
you would be welcome—
at least for a minute.
-kh-