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THE PENSIVE
SPIDER
By Ellin
Anderson
I scurry where
there is no sand,
I scuttle where there is no sea:
A crab ascended to the land,
Where mighty monsters prey on me.
Without a loom, without a hand,
I weave a net that stretches fear
To string an egg shaped like a tear
In darkness, where such pearls must stand
For beauty, hope, and industry.
Bold sailors
lure, with trap and bait,
Those left behind, thus to delight
Gourmands who troll from cup and plate
A dainty treasure in each bite.
It’s not the harvest, but the hate
That makes me wonder, was I right,
Mechanical of limbs and gait,
In leaving waters Cambrian
To joust with nearly legless Man?
I catch the
bright October dew
And hang its diamonds out to dry
With things less pretty, so that you
May see yourself, conceited fly.
The paints that Nature may apply
—
White, black, and scarlet, sulphur hue
—
Tell not to
touch; but should I sleep,
I’ll dream of beaches and the sky,
The weight and silence of the deep.
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