Wind rises;
trees bend and stretch;
webs ripple and tear.
Drops as big as she
engulf delicate weaving
as she tries respinning the damage,
but the maelstrom says no.
She retreats to a cup of leaves to endure.
Her dreams are calamitous.
I understand.
(web: study.com)
Narble Furt Lives 
I understand too.
Yes.
Nicely.
I don’t like spiders, but I do like the poem.
I kind of grudgingly accept them, but there is a creep factor I can’t deny. The common garden variety are okay, don’t bother me at all.