The spider taketh hold with her hands, and is in kings’ palaces
One hanging mirror
framed in slate,
just so, as did the silvered spun filaments.
What hangs in the filigree of silk?
her prey, beetles and flies
The spinner does not see herself,
there, coiled in the mirror
as her tiny spinnerets & legs
verily dance to a warble of evening birds; mockingbirds
Every verse of theirs is different.
What different tales do we say or sing? Might they all be the same?
What silk will we spin?
In the bright light of reflection, busily, legs, arms, brains, and song.