The Widow Poem by Macwolls Kay
The Widow
She spins her line with great precision,
An artful craft inherently mastered,
Up, down and across, she makes her way.
Fine treacherous strings, traps of death,
She spreads it wide she spreads it high,
She then sits still and in silence awaits the clunky intruder.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Topic(s) of this poem: silence
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8/26/2026 5:08:44 PM # rel_20260826T082754Z_99b456e
