Reward

Beside my bed this morning sat

a tiny spider, sleeping yet.

My swift hand setting out to kill

faltered then remained still.

Did she dream, would she wake,

contemplate where to undertake

an artful work of silken thread

- and death - does she also dread?

I picked her up and set her free

between birch and willow tree:

"Neatly weave your web now

here from bough to bough.

Let the morning it bedew

and be a mirror for sky's blue.

May the beams of the moon

harp on it their silvery tune.

When my heart sets out to brood,

I shall impearl my changing mood

with the treasures from your hoard

and bless you for my rich reward."