The Web
Hidden high in a corner, out of reach
listening to all your whispered speech,
along with my maker, hanging around
watching time pass until I'm found,
and brushed away by your broom
only to appear again in another room,
here to stay, I like this old place
just think of me as antique lace,
something beautiful and made by hand
a widow weaved me, strand by strand,
your fear of me, no longer fought
just an upturned smile now I caught,
inviting both of us to settle in
allowing my maker her web to spin,
crafted daily with a practiced hand
a thing so delicate and so grand.
Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2017
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