The Seamstress

Her paper withered,

Indeed, to be watered with ink,

To bloom poesy.

Sprouted none.

Trespassed a spider,

Over the barren land of paper,

Climbing the wall beside.

None was it, but Arachne,

Knitting its tapestry upon the wall.

Bane was its boon,

Knitted, knitting and will knit...

Tuned not only,

Robert the Bruce in the cave,

Even oozed ink from her pen.

A dot, turned art,

Its layers as stars,

Weaving its ceaseless haven.

Web weaved her words,

Curves penning her cursive,

As the liquid silk leaked, so did her ink.

Paper, a land of drought,

Ploughed by pen nib,

Sowed seeds of letters,

Irrigated by spider silk,

Manured by words...

Since the spider wrote its web of tapestry,

She knitted her stanzas of poesy.

-S.K.Meenamani