for Matt Welter

Matt tells me orb weavers
pluck silk strings and tack them
into lace, and that wolf
spiders are good mothers,
carry babies on their backs
like a hundred fiery jewels.
Never kill spiders, he says,
but instead push them
with an old Christmas card
into an empty jar
and carry them outside.
Still they sneak back in like frost.
In winter I give them
the run of my ceiling,
let them hide in my old shoes.
They leave tiny trails, stuff
cotton into dim corners,
go anywhere they please.
Do they know I'm trying
to save them? Sometimes I think
I hear their small voices calling;
I want to learn the stories
of their bodies, so like my own,
so durable and so full.

This poem first appeared in the literary journal Free Lunch and the chapbook, Flight Patterns 
(winner of the 2003 Main Street Rag Chapbook Contest, Main Street Rag Publications, Charlotte, NC).
Used here with the author's permission.