Shy spider slowly starts
A wearied web it must weave
An armada of ants approach
A cascade of colonized clones
As hornets hang high above
A flash of flies swarms to scent
The newt and its jealousy of change
Ashamed of its afflicted shade-
Resolved to a hue of one
Cotton fields, boll beneath
As the weevil works wickedly
Shy spider sated in soiled sentiment
Waits to weave its web at night
Where, under the light of moon,
The arachnid’s artistry’s aura glows
Until the morn, when man taints it all.
