Orb Weaver

She had taken down her web by morning.
I awoke from kissing your mouth over and over. 
I was afraid
you would turn away but you leaned in sweetly
my body soft and you were mine,
we were us
another moment. Waking
without you, suddenly,
I gather myself for the day
reeling back threads of silky dreams
that somehow led to your face
in my hands, that somehow found
you in the wide night, unraveling
my bound and wounded heart.
Leaving, aching, by the door I look to the place
– it had spanned magnificently
from the overhang to a folded chair –
where the orb weaver had crafted her web
the evening before; the air was just crispening
with a hint of coming autumn – solitary –
and she at the ready, sitting proudly
and fatly in the very center:
imposing, hairy legs
and the visage of a wrinkled someone
etched onto her abdomen.
Hello grandmother, I would say,
thank you for your designs.
Now she too: gone,
with the first blush of today.