A small spider here on the patio table: beautiful.
Two vivid white flecks on its black fangs 
(or whatever they are called) I notice first, 

then cocoa polka dots 
on the cream-colored rump (or stomach or thorax).
Unable to remember the official words 

for those parts, still I compliment 
such vibrant style.
The creature skitters sideways and back 

to peek at the book I’m reading, 
waving its fangs (helpful mouth parts?) 
in the air.

This scene I promise not to forget. 
The dark tiny head tilts upward toward my face
as mine turns to watch the delicate lift.
 
I want to keep our meeting alive,
not pinned, labeled and displayed on a dusty shelf 
to crumble like everything.

This sudden sensation of living I pray to stay: 
a little spider and myself 
noticing one another, reacting, yes,
 
in our own separate species ways
yet giving some minutes and (in my case) heart
to our joined perceiving.
                        

I want a place in the room.  
A corner chair will suffice 
and a window with nature views outside  
to relieve dull rumination.  
 
Most desirable is a meal with others 
that we prepare together,  
a round oak table and lemon candlelight.  
No disquieting stories.  
 
Some games afterward of the old-fashioned  
sort and a jigsaw puzzle begun.  
Maybe we might walk around the block  
with arms linked like plaza strollers  
in paintings.  
 
It will require balanced motives, bellies  
and hearts braided. Yes, I need such a place  
in an innocent room.