White Web

                                                    White Web

White web a spider spun,
made bright by winter sun,
stretched flat on window glass,
wonder at what’s soon to pass.

Admire the spider’s skill,
web weaves to trap and kill.
Rare catch of fly or flea
rewards such industry.

Brushed off with fluff and dust,
removed with burnt bronze rust.
Gone from the glass and air,
white web appears elsewhere.

In some slot, spider sleeps,
well hid, its secret keeps.
Its life though brief and frail,
still of worth its weaver’s tale.


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