Weaver

So many stories to be woven.
She worked with a furious patience,
conjuring even through dream-weary eyes
the curved brightness of dew on spider webs.
Within, an answering light brought warmth
to her designs, her fingers summoned
forest, seascape, town, in facetted
jewel shapes. Giving her utmost
she believed herself without rival;
and was, surpassing Athena's artistry.
Stung, the goddess challenged her to a duel —
in tapestry. Her subject was the gods,
vast in their pomp, their vengeful
pride — red splashing the purple.
Arachne, at the far end of the room,
wove rape after rape by gods of mortals:
Leda, Europa, Danaë … "A groundling's view!' —
so Athena judged, and punished Arachne
for her skill, her truth. (Ah,
the smallness of gods …)
Now, ringed planet, nucleus
of atom, she waits in a network of dew
to catch and hold the sky, moves with every wind,
hovering close to earth. Trapped in that
tiny globe, her self is inexhaustible —
it spins and spins and spins.