By Thomas Page
“But her life was as cold as an attic facing north; and boredom, like a silent spider, was weaving its web in the shadows, in every corner of her heart.”
—Gustave Flaubert Madame Bovary
Routine is weaved like gossamer outside
My kitchen window—its strength, its splendor
Shining in the suncaught raindrops after
A summer’s rain which, in washing cycles,
Dresses the spider’s web in sweet water.
No one notices a spider weaving
Its trap for the flies as time flies away
Like the rosy-orange’d twilights of August.
It appears as a sign of stagnation
Of outside forces on the arachnid’s
Craft of its home and business and butcher.
Spiderwebs accompany moments of
Dullness and regiments; trained in the art—
The quotidian and familiar
The fear that we like Ozymandias
Will be statues for no one to see—lost.
“Time flies” says those with their hands on watches
Waiting for their sands to escape the glass,
Constantly worrying about passing,
Irretrievable moments like needles
In dunes of haystacks and few mirages.
Who’s the spider, who’s the fly, whose cobwebs
Are attached to my kitchen window pane?
Gossamer, though product of predators,
Is the fate of prey unfortunate to
Find it sitting there while on their on way.
Tailors of nature, the spider’s product
Like those frosted droplets of water
Are unique, individual, and new.