By Thomas Page
“But her life was as cold as an attic facing north; and boredom, like a silent spider, was weaving its web in the shadows, in every corner of her heart.”
Gustave Flaubert Madame Bovary

Routine is weaved like gossamer outside

My kitchen window—its strength, its splendor

                                           Shining in the suncaught raindrops after

A summer’s rain which, in washing cycles,

Dresses the spider’s web in sweet water.

No one notices a spider weaving

Its trap for the flies as time flies away

Like the rosy-orange’d twilights of August.

It appears as a sign of stagnation

Of outside forces on the arachnid’s

Craft of its home and business and butcher.

Spiderwebs accompany moments of

Dullness and regiments; trained in the art—

The quotidian and familiar

The fear that we like Ozymandias

Will be statues for no one to see—lost.

“Time flies” says those with their hands on watches

Waiting for their sands to escape the glass,

Constantly worrying about passing,

Irretrievable moments like needles

                                           In dunes of haystacks and few mirages.

Who’s the spider, who’s the fly, whose cobwebs

Are attached to my kitchen window pane?

Gossamer, though product of predators,

Is the fate of prey unfortunate to

Find it sitting there while on their on way.

Tailors of nature, the spider’s product

Like those frosted droplets of water

Are unique, individual, and new.

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