Saturday, April 09, 2016

Spring Spider

Out it now comes from winters repose
Though where it goes only heaven knows
Perhaps to search for mate, or food, or moth
Traversing the ceiling with undulating sloth
It creeps and strokes like eight-fingered hand
And upon my head I pray it does not land
For now that I know it prowls overhead
Not a wink of sleep shall I have upon my bed