Morning song


All night she worked
to weave her web.
Perfectly strung,
started with one
strand, then two.
Still one though
for those who know,
how, all night she worked
till all was done.
From every stretch
the web now hum
a song so sweet,
from drops of dew,
that glistened on
her web
still new.
She had worked all night,
the music played,
she knew that by the end of day
the notes she made
they would be gone,
so again she would weave her
morning song.

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