The spider is a wonderful creature.
She weaves such a regular web
which has such regular features
all plotted in her tiny head.
The spokes meet in the middle
the net runs round and round.
How they get there seems a riddle,
tiny miles above the ground.
The spider swings across vast spaces
she plunges unimaginable depths
without a hint of fear on her faces
or the slightest thought of death.
Her limbs are slim and busy,
her touch, subtle as the wind.
Weaving and leaving her monuments
wherever she has been
When her work is done she sleeps
for day after day in her home
content that her work will reap her
the fruits of what she has sewn.
May my house be open to host her
may her wonders always be near
Let us raise a happy toast to her -
nature's engineer.
