The Retort

The widow spins her web
Of glistening perfection; symmetrical
Beauty, pure, the simplest of actions,
Your own creations brisk. Bring to light
The strength of your mind, the
Intricate design of raw compassion;
Uncharted understanding dances among
Your tried mental limits. And yet, so
Painstaking your circumstances, you
Pull from the depths a will to
Move onward, to continue spinning a
Web of protection for those
Dependant of you.

The widow's heart beats a steady flow
Of delicate strength; scratches and nicks
Border a splitting red crack. This deep
Crevice cringed apart in the sweet of
Spring; and though you may assume
An eternal void, the widow can only fill
Her bleeding ravine with more throbbing
Compassion and appreciation for her
Tiny life. To accept the things she has
Accepted, endured the trials she has
Endured; things you may never know.

The widow spins her web
Of glistening perfection; mending
The rips and tears of some
Immortal and undying pain which
Conceals all existence. How small
And sleek and beautiful, none would
Have thought such an insignificant
Creature would be of such importance.
But the widow is important; for
Without the hard work and tedious
Care of the widow, there is no
Hope, no foundation, and no love
To sustain life.