After the storm, the funnel spiders are revealed.
In the wash of drops from the trees, those webs spun with such care to invisibility
Are suddenly, irrevocably forced into view.
The meadows are wreathed with their work-
Fine-spun, delicately interwoven lines
Intersecting, guiding to the heart
Of the spider’s lair.
The spin of words is often more clumsy
But that heart sits at the center
Waiting to grasp the tangled visitors
And taste the audience’s appreciation.
I have a deep appreciation for spinners, delicate and otherwise.