The orb-weaver
has rolled up
her sleeping bag
and gone.
Last night at sunset
she sagged
under holes in the web
above the citronella,
marigolds and herbs.
Most mornings
she wove
a new home
but today
she’s on
another porch,
or maybe
she was done
with life, egg sac
hidden in the eaves
or underneath
a leaf. The air
seems empty.
I miss the way
she strummed
the shiny
silver threads
of her guitar.
_
Penelope Moffet is a freelance writer and poet who has also worked as an editor, a publicist for non-profit organizations, and a legal secretary, among her more reputable jobs. She lives in Southern California under the paws of two extremely strong-willed cats.
© 2023, Penelope Moffet
Halfway Down the Stairs 