I. 

In the corner today
a large spider rests frozen
in a web of spider history,

pink tile walls
and base of my tub
the expanse of two oak branches.

It's possible these spiders
have spent their entire lives
in my bathroom

accustomed only to
tropical rainforests
of steamy showers,

the tornadic debris
left behind
my broom. 

A broad sweep
trailing
spider complications.

I. 

In the corner today
a large spider rests frozen
in a web of spider history,

pink tile walls
and base of my tub
the expanse of two oak branches.

It's possible these spiders
have spent their entire lives
in my bathroom

accustomed only to
tropical rainforests
of steamy showers,

the tornadic debris
left behind
my broom. 

A broad sweep
trailing
spider complications. 

No matter, spiders
are forward thinkers,
own no spider sentimentality.

Today commences the cocoon
of a frozen spider
but only two back legs.

A large task for one.
Is spider history prevailing?
Perhaps.

II.
As I climb, dripping,
out of the tub
I am thinking

of that dainty pitcher
for hot cocoa
my great grandfather purchased

one winter in town,
bundled under his coat
through that famous Iowa blizzard,

a gift for a wife
because it was delicate, and yellow
and would seduce her, and

because he loved hot cocoa
and now she would serve it
more often. 

III.
As I imagine times
when people were stronger, and kinder,
I stretch for a towel to dry and

catch the web
of this spider who does not try
daily to be a better spider,

a kinder spider.
I destroy what
spider history has bestowed.

No matter,
I, in love with a story
of an old pitcher

(a love no spider could understand)
bundle this delicate china in paper,
on hold for my great granddaughter.

She will tell the story of this day,
and the spider will
not be part of it.