The moon was full and there she waited, her abdomen factory of silk full and ready
Amid humus and leaf, she poised her legs, her first silks moist and thready.
That first fine filament would broach the tall tassel and begin her web so delicate,
As all over the fall field of grass, more spiders’ delicate webs would demonstrate
That spiders webs and moonlight ebbs bring promises, or certain feasts, of nets spun good and steady.
There in the moonlight, they all set to work, filament strung, gossamer and long and strong,
Working fast, lashing circular spokes both sticky and fine, snaring bugs as they traveled along.
“Build it,” she knew, from eons of time, the drive for webbing untaught but known,
Miraculous I thought, as I spied them in the morning sun, filmy drops glistening on what each spider had sewn,
But knowing it’s spiders webs and dewed dropped mysteries that teach me Nature’s song.
It’s a field of dreams, one we need and one we must toil after,
Build your web and hope for provender, here and thereafter.
Because its labor and purpose and try that matters most of all,
Until that one day, when your work is done and spiders webs matter none at all.
It’s that day that leads me past the field of earthly dreams, to golden threads and special webs of God’s love hereafter.
