Several snows into winter a spider
dangles against the outside pane,
belly a nickel size in diameter,
a dollar coin if you take in eight legs.
My anthropomorphism needs
no apology to imagine she sees me,
would like to come in, even switch roles.
Surely some flies I'd like gone?
They're already dormant. She should be, too.
No business hanging on there,
no business banging against my pane,
no business in here to conclude.
Nor can I conclude this with wisdom like silk
or a web to capture, wrap up the situation.
All remains as before: spider outside, myself within,
eyeing each other, each speculating.