Morticia and the Spider

A fragile silver thread caught my eye, descending gracefully from the hollow beneath the heavy mantel clock. A garden spider, remarkably slender and industrious, had begun to cast its evening anchors toward a dark taper candle. Rather than interrupt its delicate labor, I offered the tip of my index finger as an anchor point. It accepted without hesitation, binding the pale filament to my skin before drifting back into the velvety shadows. Such dark devotion to webbing in tbe shadows is quite enchanting, especially each night as star lights drape in midnight silence.

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