Poem a Day: 17

A small pool in the base of twin trees along the new trail.

Today’s Prompts were Spider and Exotic. I don’t know if re-mything Spider Mystery is exotic or not, but this is what I came up with.

by Beth Weaver-Kreider

Not all stories start the same.
Try this one:
In the ending. . .
We’re bending the tale
around a whole new fulcrum,
following Hansl’s trail of crumbs
from wicked witch to angry stepmother,
or over other paths not yet traversed
within the standard myth.

In the ending was Spider,
marking her eternal spiral,
spinning her infinite web,
wrapping her magical bundles
(don’t become one of those).

You wonder how she got to this moment,
your mind on the lines that connect
from beam to sill, from ledge to beam again.
You want to know the structure,
sense the essence of the plot,
the way from there to here.

But when you live within the spin of infinity,
beginnings become irrelevant.
Endings, too, for that matter, fade
to insignificance. The middle,
that’s the place where twist and whirl
tingle, where living blossoms
out of nothing, and you catch
the sticky thread of the moment,
knowing you can shift from
arm to arm of time, like Spider,
who even now is watching you
from the center of her web.

In the middle. . .
Now there’s a thread
to hand a tale by.

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