A spider on an old man's beard
is like the trickling water, dripping
into a puddle, reflecting broken
webs the spiders had spun, weaving
in waves beneath a green, mossy wall.
The puddle spreads its circled shape,
While ripples flee from the center.
The spiders flee the elder's cough,
dribbling down his hairy length,
they fall to his chest to return,
climbing up the stringy strands, holding
to hairs that tickle his face. Dry,
the water crawls back to the
center, like the spiders climbing upward.
The old man sees, to his dismay,
the ground scarred dry beneath the moss,
the spiders may return once more
to their webs and homes they'd lost. One spider
leaves a single kiss, digging in his cheek,
that frees his spirit from his body
and upward towards his tranquility.