.

On the roof of my old house,

Atop the rows of red tiles,

There lived a spider for a while.

It wasn’t quite big, nor small,

Just the right size, all in all,

It had eyes like the night sky

And strong legs shaped like eyebrows,

It could jump real mighty high

And it was as dark as crows.

Sometimes I would find art weaves

Made of the finest of silks

And of pearled water and leaves,

It tasted as sweet as milk

In the morning at sunrise;

During summer, the soft breeze

Would make the finer threads hum;

During winter it would freeze,

Break away under my thumb.

But when the next day awoke

To the warming sound of smoke,

The strange art would be reborn

Without anger, without scorn;

This had always been routine

From early childhood to teen,

So imagine my surprise

When on my great big birthday

No singing portrait shone down

For, much to my own dismay,

The roof spider and her gown

Had left long before morn dowse…

.

---

Many years later,

I have heard say that my old friend, after moving from roof to roof,

had found one of her own.

*

Very proudly written with a heart beating to the sound of this small wonder: