Western facing windowsill, white, without curtains
Tiny antique pot and irons that came from my mother’s house
Sitting rust-free, dust-free, arranged just so.
Kitchen witch watches the window, winding this way and that
Above a black can of Harvest Moon beans,
Her broom and toes and nose all easy angles

Cauldron feet and canned Moon will leave rings if I do not
Wipe down the sill soon,
Metal frame beaded with opposing temperatures, ready to run
Black house spider sits covert next to the can
His feet are wet and I wonder
How long he’s been there and if he’s on his way elsewhere
Never saw him before.
He is out of place in my perfect little world.

A thirsty midnight walk, I won’t be sleeping anymore
I drink cold water and notice the spider is on the floor
I wonder if he wonders how he got there.
He refuses the order of my toes to his legs to ‘move it move it move it’
As the hours go by I see he crept a little ways
Tiny chess piece on a cold, ivory floor
He hasn’t moved in hours and I wonder what he needs
To reinflate himself and make his way to a safe, dark corner?
Perhaps he’s expired, and no one would ever know
He ever had any kind of life unless he left it there on my floor.