the spider is dead

the spider is dead
but her web still remains
thread architecture spun between
the branches

a yellow and pink moth
a rosy maple
flies into the web
and gets stuck

no creature is coming to eat her
the spider is dead
yet she beats her powder wings
into exhaustion and dies
suspended in this silken geometry

nothing is gained
no nutrition is garnered from
this faerie’s demise
all eight eyes of the builder
have long gone stony and silent
and we imagine this is cruelty
but there is no such thing as cruelty
there is only circumstance
this is just what happened

the tiniest of things will consumer her
after all
the meek inherit the earth every day