Snow falls — despite the promise of floating tiny spiders on parachutes of web
Recently they have begun to move upstairs — migrate north — or emerge from their eggs following a too early tug — an Anthropocene itch — without the necessity of mechanisms or clocks
The entire season — nay — the entire world has become ghostlike — a society of specters
Before we became the ghosts — they wandered freely — wood to trail — road to alley — bedroom to house — story to ear to eye — mind to mind
Did we gain anything by banishing them from house and field? Only to become their place of residence — our lives one long haunting
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