Come into My Parlor
A poem
A poem
Patiently sits the eight-legged artisan,
weaving between the rafters
strand by gleaming strand,
looping, crossing,
each thread a delicate craft.
With nimble limbs
each new filament strengthens her snare,
this architecture her purpose, her gift.
Perched in shadow,
still, as stone, senses primed.
Vibration brings action,
swift movement along silken freeways,
graceful, sleek.
A meal arrives, struggling futilely,
the masterpiece has served its use.
Anew she spins,
weaving beauty from nothingness
patient, constant, intricate patterns
illuminating fragile connections.
A simple spider,
yet infinitely wise.