Polly Thurston
Four Poems
“Spider Intelligence” previously
published in Minotaur 42 (Vol. 9, No. 3), 2004
SPIDER INTELLIGENCE
I watched a spider extract a leaf
from her web.
The leaf was ten times larger
than the spider.
It sailed in on the wind,
cut a swath of destruction,
planted itself just below center.
Methodically
the spider cut cords
that bound the leaf.
Slowly the leaf fell lower
lower
until it was caught only
on strong outer strands.
Spider ran to the far end,
the leaf tipped its balance
so most of the leaf
was outside the web.
Just then the wind
picked up,
the leaf flailed around.
I was afraid
it would attach higher again,
but it didn’t.
As the wind settled
with leaf mostly outside the web
Spider cut the last few threads.
The leaf fell, and was gone.
Spider ran to the center of her
web
pulling new strands
another, another.
At the center
she did a little twirl
another, another,
attaching almost invisible
threads.
Then she ran to the top of the
web
sat under the window ledge
rubbing legs together
she left me no doubt
she knew what to do.
The last time I saw her
she was sitting still.
WINTER WREN
If I could be winter wren singing
in spring.
If I could carry his tune, his
trilling melody,
fiercely protecting a patch of
shrub and understory.
If I could know how he finds the
nest at the base of the tree.
How the calipers of his beak
decide on size.
How he chooses moss to line the
cavity.
Then I would bob and bow to bring
her in
and know, my tiny heart pounding,
how grief could rise again.
And she with her song, how both
melodies
tangle on the forest floor—sword
fern, lichen,
mushrooms looking on.
We would not know if summer’s
long.
But she would ease my misery
with her song.
POPPY SEEDS
I picked California poppy pods
and set them on my counter
in a shallow dish.
I picked these pods because they
were
a rare white poppy,
not your usual
sunshine yellow.
The day was hot,
the room was hot.
When I returned
there were California poppy seeds
all over the counter
spread on the floor
several feet away.
Long cylindrical pods,
with several seams
going the length,
sprung in the heat.
The pods jumped,
seeds jumped out,
my laugh jumped out too.
OPEN WINDOW
Sitting at the window, watching
fireweed seed fluff up and float
away.
It’s after rain, a cool fall
breeze
slips through the window slit,
past the patterned maroon
curtain.
Somewhere in the house a fly
buzzes, circling.
When I close my eyes someone
standing in the periphery—a
shadow, a poet.
But I don’t catch sight as he
leaves
through the curtain’s out breath.
And I wonder where the seeds
will land.
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