The White Spider

On the window sill
He is frozen over
In an old coat
Of white paint.
He is part statue
In his permanence,
Part ghost in death,
Part cloud as he looms,
And part mummy
As he is preserved.
From dust everything
Was brought fourth,
And to dust
Everything will return.
If you try to beat
The simple truth of it
You're bound to collect dust
In the place
You thought was safe.