The Spider

She hangs

suspended

like a puppet

dancing

to the tune

of the wind.

Blown this way,

blown that,

buffeted,

but only briefly.

Then she takes control

like a mistress puppeteer.

Knowing she is

powerful

and free.

Free to spin her silk

and 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 are

pre-ordained

pre-programmed

destined 

to be repeated 

millennia 

after millennia

in her genes.

And there’s nothing 

that she can do

to change it.

https://poetsonline.org/archive/arch_waysoflooking.html