The Spider Temple

In the Spider Temple the stone has no voice -
the millions of tons of its silence drip like water
down the countless limbs of its statues.
Centuries of unbreathed air
cling to the flagstones and the altars;
the kind of stillness that old women mean
when they say, “Everything is becoming still.”

From the roof the Spider Temple is a dance of gargoyles,
pale brown in the darkness,
their heavy legs not scraping the rough-carved floor –
quiet as ballerinas, the beautiful golems curve
to the physics of their forgotten religion.

There is no fear in the Spider Temple,
so ancient that it has forgotten its weight, its meaning,
and floats in the soaking forest like a baby.