Ghostly Poetry Spiders on a Spinning Wheel Spiders suspending from webs on an old spinning wheel— Weaving invisible threads they cleverly conceal. Where once warm yarns were spun for antique garments no longer worn, Now, there is only spiders’ silk—and the spokes these webs adorn. Eight long, wriggling legs casting shadows here and there— They lace each web without even the slightest tear, Sewing gowns for gossamer ghosts seen only by gallant guests. Upon thin and unseen strings, each small and slender spider rests. Then spread afar a blackened blanket of bleak thunderclouds— And against the roof and windows, a torrential rain pounds. In flares of lightning, falling droplets’ shadows drip— Like an excess of ink after a deep pen dip. Over the wall, wheel, and webs, these shadowy droplets pour— As if fleeting dreams long-gone and remembered nevermore. And in every bluish bolt’s flash, the spiders’ twine glimmers, While on cloudless nights, in the full moon, their webwork shimmers. Yet this house is quite empty, and has been for many decades— Dust collects as clocks cease to tick—and thus every portrait fades. The spinning wheel is henceforth still—its handiwork left in old drawers; Now spiders live on this spinning wheel—and their company is yours. Return to Ghostly Poetry Previous Poem

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