Sunday, 4 July 2010

Taken by Chris Crittenden

spider was wearing
the slate-butter-black of the spruce,
flecked and striped just so.
she could have been a perch
of small twigs,
or a lichen smudge,
or a cradled down tuft.
her halo was leaf light
filtered to dapple
in the way that tigers
marry with vines.

sun-rich as seraphim,
orbited with erratic grace,
seeming to teleport and tease.
he plucked her lair
as if tuning a harp, lured
by the promise
of its fluctuant jewels.
until one strum
rippled forth a harsh shimmer,
and added to the music
a broken whine.

Chris Crittenden, USA


my delayed reactions said...

I like the internal rhyme and line breaks in this poem, giving it an understated feel.

Amanda said...

For me, these beautiful words evoke a surprisingly disturbing image...perhaps lending a sort of delight to the natural cycle of life and death.