Atop the dew-draped leaflets she began,
With crafty eye assessing each new site,
Spinning, thinning, ’til her silk was spun,
Tenuous and taut all through the night.
The dawn awakens others to her plight,
And they, who care not for her work of art,
Bring brooms and brush away her strand of light,
Unthinking of the damage, tear apart.
A metaphor for life’s incessant starts,
We strive and try again, despite the foils,
Mistakes we’ve made, the torn asunder hearts,
By selves or unseen forces, still we toil.
Her webs, our days and nights, brushed harsh aside,
Reweave again, the fabric of our lives.