The Weaver

Upon pearlescent threads,

A silver gossamer like mist,

Sparkle drops of dew

Through which the spider sees itself,

Sinuous and lithe,

Reflected, spinning webs of fate

Casting a shadow over you.

Life, hanging in the balance,

A web is a corner of the world that dances

With the slightest silky breeze,

Billowing like a parachute,

This sheath captures nature,

Thousands of small windows

Like puzzle pieces,

Quilt squares in a tapestry

Continuing for infinity.

The spider’s web shudders

On the house’s eaves,

Soft as dust and grains of sand,

Fibrous and firm, even when it slips through your hand.

Twirling on its intricate trapeze,

The spider makes its mosaic

And we watch

From far away.