Gossamer

The tiny spider

Perched on the edge of the twig,

And looked out

At the vast distance

To the branch on the other side.

With the help

Of a favorable breeze,

The arachnid let loose

Trailing a shiny wet thread of silk.

Upon reaching the opposing twig,

It anchored the sticky substance

To a spot on the wet bark.

This one tiny strand of spider silk

Was weak by itself,

Almost meaningless.

But every masterpiece

Begins with a single stroke

Of the artist’s brush.

So the spider retraced its steps,

Crawling along

The newly glistening strand,

Trailing more sticky web

Back to the beginning,

In an intricate pattern

That the spider knew instinctively,

Slowly building a web

Of crisscrossing strands,

Creating its opus magnum of nature

That would provide

Both protection and sustenance.

You, tiny weak thread,

Who believes himself insignificant

In an utterly compassionless universe,

You are mighty.

For without you

The web is greatly weakened.

Without you

An ugly hole threatens the survival

Of the entire web,

And forces it into a state

Where subsistence is difficult,

And a minor storm

Can rend this little universe.

You, tiny weak thread of silk,

Are strong enough.

And with others around you

You can become unbreakable,

Firm, yet flexible.

And even as the sunlight

Creates a prismatic image

In the morning dew

Across the web,

Your presence is crucial.

For without all colors

The spectrum doesn’t exist.

You, tiny weak thread of gossamer,

Are desperately needed,

And appreciated

For your intrinsic beauty,

And for your worth.

You, tiny weak thread,

Are loved.