A Cold Spider Poem by Liberatore Suffoletta

Winter, A season, between us,
a cold spider, and February,
perhaps on New Year's Day,
weaving something,
while you unravel,
something else,
as you spin
with your thoughts.
What thread!
What fantastic wool thread!
planting doors for the north wind
to open among the mountains.
Who weaves,
who unravels,
while someone else holds the lamp,
as the golden blood of the oil burns.
Someone goes and someone returns
with a dying sunrise in their mouth.
A lamp, between us, a cold spider,
our words narrate something,
something that is all consuming.
Who brought these words that eat at us,
who speaks? ,
who speaks this language
while seeding infertile fields?