The eldest will always be a spider

You would not believe the weeds I have severed

To protect the garden, though the roots remember

You would not believe the webs I’ve woven

To collect the rain and drown what was not meant for soil

You would weep for the memories I've lost
To keep the peace, though their company still lingers beneath the leaves.

You would mourn the things I’ve heard

Sleepless in the hush of the trees, where only the ugliness speaks

I, hideous and hated, still weave bravely through the night,

One thousand silken, sacred threads to hold the garden tight.

Will you never remember who caught the bugs 

Or do you fantasize that the daisies have survived on their own

You would lament the beauty I once was

Though the roots still tell my story 

The first to tend to the seeds;

But a spider never leaves