The spider pulls the thread to thread the web
In spirals on the star across the stems,
A zig-zag to the side to stitch it up,
Then centers itself, looking out in eight
Directions, its organization firm
Beneath its sensitive eight legs that feel
For movement so the spider can pounce on
The profit from its hard and lonely work.
A hop and lonely buzz entangles fast
The locust looking for some grass to feast
Upon. This was the one that would have tipped
Next year into a swarm, a plague that would
Have stripped the land and starved the herds and tribes,
And pushed the men to other lands and war.
A predator this year made next year’s prey
Enough for next year’s predators to stay
Their numbers. Life will stay in bounds and grow
A healthy rate, for wealth must be made slow.
The spider wraps its prey up in its web
To feast in peace out on the margins of
Its web. It then returns to make repairs,
To weave with liquid hardened in the air,
Until the web is perfect once again.
No central spider, though, can weave the web
The spider, locusts, herds and man must live
Within, a web that’s made in complex trade
Of life or value, woven in their need
One for the other. As important as
The spider is, do not mistake his web
For that one which we weave invisibly.