Let’s Tell Scary Stories | Meg Harris
My automatic drawing became your face. The plump brown-orb-weaver laces a web then lies in wait at the edge of the moon-reflecting glass. Ghost orbs float in the night. The snowy owl sweeps down the bank behind your head. For a moment I believe he will embrace you, this great white angel. I got the eyes wrong but the mouth is yours, looking as if it may move to curse or to kiss me.