We weave our webs like spiders
across interminate expanses
Making our rough geometry with a pattern in mind.
We may never see it —
The wind may take for its collection —
Another spider catch the fly we have spent hours pursuing.
When we are done we wait.
The net may sit silent for ages while we weave others —
It may catch flies we have long forgotten
Our webs mean nothing to the trees
As our webs mean nothing.
They are our tools
But they are glimmering
And they are beautiful
None the less
For their meaninglessness