Jack Scott writes

Part IV

So odd 

to be so slight 

so suddenly, 

out of context, 

free of everything, but air, 

the failing wind  behind it all, 

emphysemic, weak and small 

from running all the way 

upstairs so fast 

with such a heavy load, 

let go now in weariness.

Highest spider 

in the deepest trench, 

of thinnest sea 

drowns softly 

as the final lick 

of longest wave 

now beckons home 

to kidnapt life 

in this far upper place, 

tugs softly back. 

Wind ghost whispers 

final summons 

in crystal frost 

on gossamer 

for spider stuck 

upon the Great Divide 

of Up and Down

Dreamvaguely, 

behind a tiny pair 

of heavy lidding eyes 

the spider’s vision: 

milkweed trailing comet floss, 

slowly gaining spiral 

fluffed open by the feeble wind, 

web within it billowing - 

masterpiece of hunger 

where there is prey. 

Though strong as steel samara 

here for this frail parachute, 

seeking traction 

for the best way down, 

not finding it; 

up may now be stronger.

Spider has spun art 

that’s freed her 

from her drudgery, 

her livelihood’s insistence, 

incessant as the tides. 

The artist’s on her art, 

and in it, fisherman 

reeling in what’s left of earth 

to Oz, a brief reality.