She sits near a window and never knocks,

though you know she’s always at home.

Spinning, weaving, making time

by measure of her lengthy thread.

Little delicate creature of black,

why do you hover so?

Peering through my window frame,

do you dream of warm rooms,

no rent,

not hanging by a thread?

Little old woman in your stamp of bright red,

do you know that your sign says

stand back?

I’d love to come and let you in,

if only you would refrain

from venomous tendencies!