How like a spider I become of late:
how vigilant, and light upon my feet.

I carry fourteen times my body weight
upon a clue of gossamer, as neat
as mercury. Renewing my own bed
at least six days a week, I pen a poem;
I weave a page. My web’s linguistic thread,
my room’s a loom, my art device and home.

I exercise eight thin extremities
in trim production, calmer as I age,
more patient with myself and even God.
Distinguishing between design, disease
and chaos, I’m expressing as I gauge
the smoothest way around an emerod.