Am I to be a spider, laying traps
casting nets
spinning webs—
always hungry,
and never speak—
until my hair is silver as my thread?

I think I should be instead
a careless sparrow, and fly where I may
and land where I please.
Be plain-feathered and plain of song
so none will wish to cage me.

But I will let myself be tugged down
by gravity, or bread.
And I will perch in hand or bush
and be still when I will and have my peace
and be fed.