The
spider weaved her web with clear lines of thread.

The
insects crept up from a muddy patch of marshland, once dead.

She
weaved unconscious of anything that might disturb her.

The
web was her one and only aim, her delicate claim to fame.

She
weaved with spindles, her hands, shooting silk into strands.

An
elegant swan might have felt disgraced by the web’s simple lace.

The
moonlight brought a pale glow on the spider and her web,

Hoping
to see something beautiful before it faded into morning.

The
spider never noticed this: the moon’s cream-filled kiss.

She
kept on until her work was done, in the land of the sun.

A
day begun; she had finished spirals and loops one by one:

A
work of art as soft as dandelion tufts and as strong as a river.

The
spider smiled to herself and cooled her spinning glands.

The
insects had arrived: ants and flies came in tight-knit bands…

The
spider was as merry as a holiday wreath, “Now, I can use my teeth.”