Tired of the afternoon, too tired to rest, a crooked dropping spider made herself my guest, dispossessed of the wood over which she'd labored wispily uniting the crooked scrap lengths of pine by busy inner habit for a length of time. Unwitting where she was, she knew no reason to rest here out of season. No reason.... Though with no reason myself among the rest, I dare endure my time as long as any guest; ignorant of Sisyphus, she had no sense of labor, tying and untying her crooked knots of pine. Reason's only reason in the absurdity of time. With sly and candid step, each time each time, a spider will weight a grassblade for her reasons until the toppling tip on earth must have its rest where busy man himself is a busy guest by dint of crooked reason and crooked labor. Too tired to rest, wherever here is, I pine for bed. Each crooked plank was chopped from pine; I lie and contemplate the length of time Granddad who'd taught me hewed his reasons, laboring and loving busily that I might rest somewhere on Earth an honored guest. And here again the dropping spider took up her labors, surprising me upon the crooked wood I labor. I watched her threaded progress along the pine desktop chopped from scraps of time when Granddad himself had thought his reasons for cutting and hewing had been laid to rest. Busily I contemplate my busy guest. Absurd, I think, how the length of time we're guests Shrinks, and crook my wood portrait while she labors, going awkwardly on against the lengths of pine as if it were no labor to labor all her time. If reasons she kept, she kept them her own reasons as we carved the scraps of day to silent rest. Tired in my crooked dreams of tired day's length of tired time, I hear my angry Mentors demand and reason; I labor, labor, labor on my portrait without rest.