Web
So this is fear.
The dark spider scuttles away
over the underboards.
I watch the blood bead on my skin
and think rapidly:
the last dollar,
the last piece of bread,
lightning sizzles under the door.
Whether it hurts or not
I imagine it does.
I remember a bat caught years ago
in the attic, how he tried
among the swung brooms,
not knowing we would let him go.
I get up to walk, to see if I can.
So this is fear.
The trapdoor
unnails itself; in the dusk
the curtains move
as though the wind had bones.
Photographer ET's Photo Home
Poem by Mary Oliver
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