She is all quiet urgency.

It is autumn,

her moment.

She was born to weave




She must sense

her limited timeline,

the shortness of her life.


Her legs move quickly,


a master 0rb-weaver;


only months old,

but with pattern engrained in her brain cells

by ancient codes.


The web is delicate

moving with the slightest

breath of breeze,

hardly visible 

until sunlight touches its edges…

her touch

a pinprick of gentleness.


It is complex,

a mathematical miracle,

space, geometry, time

a perfect equation.


She has picked this spot

This moment

This September.

She will perform her duty,

the only purpose to which she is bound,

and pass.