spinnerets ovenbird While I’m plugged into the cloud, working to weave words meant to soothe and reassure, you are letting silk slip from your spinnerets. At breakfast the air was unbroken. When I clock out for the day you’ve built a whole world, sticky and translucent, shining in a shaft of sun shimmering with dust motes. “Salutations,” I whisper, because this is how you must address a spider. I spend a moment marvelling at what you’ve made and feel thin strands of regret tugging at my heart. I’m inclined to let you stay in my dining room, but you’ve slung your masterpiece across the balcony door and, sooner or later, someone will need to open it. As gently as I can I sever the thread that anchors your web to the corner of my table. A sorrow cuts through me as I do it and deepens as I watch you scrambling for stability in the tangles of silk that took hours to assemble and one violent second to undo. I could never make what you have made, but I can destroy it. Destruction is so easy. It takes no talent at all. I scoop you up in a glass measuring cup and move you outside where you crouch, angry, on the leg of a wooden lounger. I leave you to your justified rage. How many beautiful webs have I woven that have been swept away by careless hearts? Too many to count, I fear. I wish I could tell you that I saw what you made of your own body and thought it beautiful. Sometimes mercy requires an act of chaos. Maybe you can feel that. Maybe you will summon the courage to start again. 251002 what's it to you? who go blather from