A Different Kind of Poem There is a tree. Most of the leaves have fallen. Autumn is almost spent. Tangled in the nearly-bare branches are the remains of an intricately-spun spider web. Jagged holes mar the symmetry of the once-perfect design. Gossamer filaments, so carefully interwoven, are swinging in loose disarray, tossed about by relentless gusts. A single strand has come almost free and hangs below the branches, twisting and spinning in an uncaring wind. On that tenuous tether clings a spider, trying, in vain, to climb back to the web to repair it yet one more time. No matter. Winter will soon be here.