[from The Poems of Marianne Moore]
To Pierrot Returning to His Orchid
Spider, with the freckles of a clown
And sumptuous contortions of a gnome,
How came you by that one bright object in my room
That you could fitly call your own — upon whose flame you
seemed unconsciously to drift
And like a moth to settle down?
The forest is your home.
I shall not evict you, spider, no.
You strayed exotic from the pantomime,
Your dog-flower carried by the stream to drown yourself,
Like inland seaweed, in a pond of tough-stemmed lilies:
You are here; apparently
Content to be my guest — Say so.
It is Christmastime.