Among the flowers of beauty bright,
Upon leaves of green I sight
Graceful webs of intricate fashion
Of labor and of passion.
No architect so proud can craft this shroud;
Its sticky vines of ensnaring gloom
Tell little of an impending doom.
Hidden fangs await the unwary,
The thirsty, the greedy;
Entangled vivacity thrashes about
With a dreadful shout.
The spider’s banquet is short and rich
As it savors every twitch.
No prying eye will dare to spy
On death’s descending cry.
At dusk it drops from a canopy sky
To taste the spoils from its ravenous eyes.
Death wrangles a martyr, wraps it in twine
Then dangles it from a vine.
Flowering sprouts enjoy the morn,
Marveling at the horde of spiders born.
A cloud of spiders take to flight
On currents of air lassoed
Jonathan M. Bellmann