She wards the doorjamb. I, the knob. Stuck in a sitzkrieg, rotten with dust & peppermint oil. The spider clings to its mark, persistent & intractable, this black baby that rebuilds its web each time the north wind wails or I open the screen door. The bitsy arachnid refusing to concede & allow any force to relocate her home, no matter how many times it tries. The wind, the door, the spider, & I now locked into the perpetual dance of obstinacies, destruction, & repair.