The Waiting Game
By Buzby
Strung across the door-frame, arebeaded threads of morning dewthat glint in the rising sun.On fibres that seem too frailto support – the spider sitsquietly awaiting her prey.Hunkered in her sticky trapshe is both silent and still,calm and poised; waiting to strike.Cold northern winds sway the web.It is winter, she will havea very long time to wait(accepted for publication in Candelabrum Poetry Magazine)This is quite different from my usual style. Comments/criticism welcome. Written October 30th, 2001 © on Oct 29 2001 10:14 PM PST 0 • 10
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"Strung across the door-frame, arebeaded threads of morning dewthat glint in the rising sun.On fibres that seem too frailto support – the spider sitsquietly awaiting her prey.Hunkered in her sticky trapshe is both silent and still,calm and poised; waiting to strike.Cold northern winds sway the web.It is winter, she will havea very long time to wait(accepted for publication in Candelabrum Poetry Magazine)This is quite different from my usual style. Comments/criticism welcome...."