The Master Weaver
She wove a silken tapestry
by Robert Charles Howard
in the calm still of a moonlit night
spinnerets spewing slender strands -
light as air but strong as Kevlar.
A silvery armature spanned the trail
clinging to trunks and branches.
Rappelling down from its pinnacle
she set spokes on her deadly wheel.
Spiraling in from the outermost ring
she knitted her way to its center
to await the tell-tale shudder
of a fly or moth flown into her snare.
She took no note of the hiker
standing alone on the trail -
transfixed by the dew laden spiral
shimmering in the rose-glow sun.
It mattered not to the spider
that a man would find her work pleasing
and it mattered not to the man
that the web was not woven for art.