Black Widow

In threads of silk She hangs in wait,
Her hapless victims court their fate;
Around them, summer's flowers bloom,
Nature's glory, victims' doom.
They touch the web with carefree tread,
Alert, She feels the trembling thread;
The scuttling lunge, the terrible eyes,
The victim quivers, stiffens, dies.
With gossamer ropes She binds the kill,
She sucks the juices, takes her fill,
And leaves the tiny, blackened husk
Hanging in the gathering dusk.
Sated, deadly, proud, alone,
She hangs once more within her throne.
Unmoved by feelings, loves or hates,
The patient Widow sits and waits