She sways in the moonlight,
Waving her wiry legs.
It looks complicated to me,
But is simple to the Weaver.
The arachnid twists and spins,
Creating her own interpretive dance,
That looks pointless to me,
But is vital to the Weaver.
Silly strands swing from her minuscule body,
As she dashes about.
This seems hard work to me,
But a normal day's task to the Weaver.
The spider completes her work as the sun peeks above the horizon,
And she comes to a halt,
Resting wearily on her bed of web,
Drained from her hard night's work.
Her creation is nothing to me,
But is crucial to the Weaver.
I watch as she settles,
Plopping down with satisfaction.
This work seems unnecessary to me,
But is daily life for the Weaver.
YOU ARE READING
Poems from the Right Brain
PoesíaSome silly, some not. Some lighthearted, some littered with thought. Some passionate, some numb. Some so clever, some outright dumb. Some more cautious, some bursting with tears. Some revealing memories, some unveiling my fears. So here's my heart...
