The poor little thing caused no trouble
She slipped down my bath's rim
And landed smack bang in a bubble.
She was barely the size of a snowflake
Far too sweet to let melt in the foam
To the spider-shaped crumb
In the hopes I could carry her home.
But perhaps in my haste to retrieve her
My nail pierced right through her small frame
Her limbs were all twisted
She was limp, and my cheeks burned with shame.
In vain did I clear the bubbles
That clung, web-like, all around her
I had left her far worse than I found her.
If my hands were but slightly more gentle
Our difference in size not so great
She could have been saved
Instead, she'd been left to her fate.
I wonder if God feels the same
That his hands are too big, we too little
Like the spider, we're simply too brittle.