The Rescue of Photinus Pyralis

Over the lintel, you hang helpless.
Your arms and legs tangled in a woven strung net.
The form descends down to tie a ribbon around you.
The lines will end in a knotted gossamer bow.
You wiggle what is left, flying was such sweet certainty,
as the strands of silky thread start to spin and spread.
Evening tacks through the air suspended in your mind,
endless landings on tree branches,
flower petals, grass blades, car doors,
fingered hands, and doorjambs.
All ends here above the door of a country house,
a structure where your light organ tiptoed across time and space.
Short bursts of lightning flash against the setting in of night.
Chords of cathedral bells begin to chime inside.
A human, unaware of danger, begins to sound his steps.
She is perched there, waiting for her consumption.
You are the dark food to give her strength.
In her web, you will become edible and liquid,
pure substance for more stitching and weaving and eating.
You become still like a body shrouded for the tomb,
when a raised rake intercedes on your behalf.
Deus ex machina enacted on a country door post.
Photinus Pyralis lives another second, or a minute, or a day,
or weeks, or years.
The firefly is saved to starve the spider.
His eternity is won by peeling off a cobwebbed cocoon.
And the spider starves in the dark, today,
as a lightning bug saves his light tonight, for tomorrow.