A Child's Drawing of a Cobweb

By this, at last, I know I am your mother-

More than the texture of your hair,

More than the similar blue stare

Of eyes as round as mine, this proves no other

Could be the root that nourished your small petals.

Your mind was not intense to trace

A cartwheel or a clock's clear face,

Not woods' hard surfaces nor gleaming metals.

Close to the blank grey paper you attended-

The busy spider of your hand

Scuttled and schemed, and squirmed and planned,

Till from the crayon's golden stub descended

The faint, familiar, delicate line.

So do you write yourself as mine,

Most strangely with your own hand you do homage

To what I see and love and serve,

The silvery vein, the fine-spun nerve,

The silken bone of some frail beauty's image.