A spider on my windowsill, her art, stretched in the sun: aglimmer, the colors fill; the wind flaps what she spun. O little spider in the glass, what dreams have brought you here? O little weaver, arachnid lass, live you for love or fear? And hunger knows what hunger is, yet hungers all the same, for in the last analysis, the hunt is just a game. So, string your little web, my child; you're God's creation too. The world is bright, the world is wild, and I'm mortal as you. Like you, part instinct and part craft, we both must cast a spell— What hear I now? I fear you laughed, but that's a dream as well.
Tale Told 