A Spider's Midday
The mandibles of the garden spider hastily plunged
into the swathed prey it had left from yesterday.
The spider had spun quite the yarn around the thing
and one could scarcely discern its prior animation.
The bundle, the wrap, the unfortunate victim
effused in the cocoon of death woven for it.
While the spider, the hunter, the cunning arachnid
broke its lifelong fast after a hard week’s work.
From inside observed a man through a dirty window
as the spider spun around, then bit into its meal.
And the man saw this, and pondered for a while
as the spider did not, and continued to feast.
A man can choose, and he can choose to sin
while a spider, by nature, can do no such thing.
Man can choose to be kind, or cruel, or neither
while in a spider’s mind, no such thoughts do ring.
The man thought of his life, and his gift of choice
the spider thought of food, but did not call it such.
The man sat inside, and contemplated much.
The spider swayed in the wind, and proceeded with lunch.