by Robert P. Tristram Coffin
With six small diamonds for his eyes
He walks upon the Summer skies,
Drawing from his silken blouse
The lacework of his dwelling house.
He lays his staircase as he goes
Under his eight thoughtful toes
And grows with the concentric flower
Of his shadowless, thin bower.
His back legs are a pair of hands,
They can spindle out the strands
Of a thread that is so small
It stops the sunlight not at all.
He spins himself to threads of dew
Which will harden soon into
Lines that cut like slender knives
Across the insects’ airy lives.
He makes no motion but is right,
He spreads out his appetite
Into a network, twist on twist,
This little ancient scientist.
He does not know he is unkind,
He has a jewel for a mind
And logic deadly as dry bone,
This small son of Euclid’s own.