Why the spider spins.

They spin from a canvas made of the finestest silk know to man,
they spin without emotional memories and eloborate plans.
they spin without being paid from wishes or  commissions, they spin deaf to the sound  that  water  makes when it listens.

They spin in a loop so circular in its design, that the spinning itself sings the sweet songs of the mind. Onward and through hoops of glass the spin reflects the seasons past

They spin and they spin to rest for a sec, To overlap their chords in sets of three-six-nine- and eleven. hanging by breezes so tightly densed-that the dance that they swing to makes no sense, to the untrained eye and the sleeping tongue, a puzzzle, a mask, a spectrum undone. You can"t figure why they have so much fun.

They spin in flight, faster than the human sight, laughing at those who are not as bright-so light, the steps they take to express their right. To spin ans spin and tell their story, about how to spin with the texture of their hidden glory.

They spin and they shout for all to see, for spinning is the key that set them free.