A tribe of spiders has colonized
the screen porch, spinning
its filament castles
in every nook. Pinhead-size,
each one lets drop a heap
of debris bigger than she is–
moth-carcasses, egg-casings
shiny excremental pellets.
How do these busy little
bodies do it all? I hate
to sweep away such diligence.
My broom’s a tsunami
they don’t deserve.
Outside, I shake it off
gently as any god
into the flowerbed. Where
I won’t step on them, where
they may live to spin out
their short days.