When she was a garden spider

and she hovered improbably above the patio

on that autumn morning, she caught me

with a filament across the brow.

Now, here comes the longest night.

People circle solstice fires, watch sparks drift

into whatever comes next.

Angels, too, must have a ritual for this,

the moment of perfect imbalance

when the dark gathers in one place.

They must lean into it, their weightlessness

floating us through gravity’s fingers. For me,

though, I need a face, one I might recognize.

Take this photograph of my aunt Claudia

who died in childbed years before I was born.

Where do I stand? where look to find her?

Or take the field mouse that nibbled on a seed

under the feeder that late November evening.

A blink of owl-white and it was gone.

She’s gone, but traces of her remain.

A dun-shaded egg sac tucked in a corner

out of sight, full of now and hereafter. Or light.

Or wings. Or that which floats or falls

when let go

          into our cousin night.