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.
mosquito,
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
I like the internal rhyme and line breaks in this poem, giving it an understated feel.
ReplyDeleteFor me, these beautiful words evoke a surprisingly disturbing image...perhaps lending a sort of delight to the natural cycle of life and death.
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