Monday, June 27, 2011
Image by Alex Shapiro
Music makers and spiders
each deal with webs.
I spin endless pages of mine,
five lines wide, designed to catch
little black specks of sound-
to be interpreted by others.
My notes fly onto the page,
get stuck in those lines,
and are summarily digested.
The other day the specks hanging
from the web on my monitor screen
must have looked so enticing,
that they attracted a little spider.
With a vengeance, she glombed on
to the downbeat of a bar I was fleshing out
in a computer notation program. In fact,
I think she was trying to edit me.
I’d written a D-flat there.
But she defiantly tapped on the pitches,
taunting me for my poor choice
and doing her best to save me
from composerly embarrassment.
The D-flat remained.
She glared at me.
Later that evening, I was sitting very still.
I was working at my desk, as the corner
of my eye kept catching something odd.
I looked sideways, and saw nothing.
I returned my focus to my work.
Again, something almost indiscernible
drifted within close range.
This time, I gazed up to the heavens
from which each elusive object descended:
the top beam of the high, cathedral
cedar ceiling here in the living room.
At first I saw nothing,
but as my eyes adjusted,
I began to notice old remnants
of grey cobweb lace, laden
with the lint of time.
As I watched, small, occasional,
dusty pieces gently made their slow
motion plunge toward my shoulder.
The light glanced each floating traveler
as it passed through the air between me
and its imminent resting place.
It almost looked as though
it was snowing lightly inside my home.
It was oddly beautiful.
Posted as prose over on her site Notes From the Kelp
Line breaks by Glenn Buttkus