The yellow spider the size of my eyelash
Walks the lines of my palm
a shadow, an almost-
spectral soul
To be a human—we lament—
is a rather ill-fated way
to survive these wintral
elements
I could have been a spindly
mark amid Spring grass
But I am with flesh
And a bleeding
life force—heart
And still, with yours against my own
in this embrace.