Spider

She hangs
suspended,
like a puppet
dancing
to the tune
of the wind.
Blown this way,
blown that,
buffeted,
but only briefly
before she takes control
like the mistress puppeteer
she is
powerful
free
to spin her silk
to weave her web
as she wills.
Or so she thinks.
But it’s an illusion.
She’s trapped.
Trapped
and wrapped
by her dna
as securely
as any fly,
her patterns
pre-ordained
pre-programmed
destined
to be repeated
millennia
after millennia
in her genes.

http://www.praxismagonline.com/lynn-white-three-poems/



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