A writer's words are preciously precocious.
It is hard to choose one over the other-
They can be stubborn,
They can make you laugh, cry
sigh in disbelief.
They can make you rejoice, curse
and beg them to please come from underneath
That place where they hide so well
-That corner of the room between the drapes
and the agape door
where a spinster wielding eight legs
weaves tales of solitude
hoping to catch stranded dreams scurrying blindly
into the arms of the familiar.