Member Poem

 
Silk Threads
 
The front gate is locked,
purple bougainvillea dried and withered–
faded, fragile, thin
          as moth wings.
 
Fruit trees: ripe chirimoyas, limes,
avocados had dropped to the earth in
abundance. Now the trees are dusty and barren.
 
When a grandmother dies, a mother dies,
and a small corner of the world is buried–
a world of silk threads
          woven into shawls,
                    ponchos, scarves.
 
Worms in wooden plank beds, feast on
mulberry leaves, weave cocoons, emerge into
dull moths, who lay their eggs and promptly die. 
 
Children live on, marry, have children,
become widowed–leaving a
husband’s guitar in the corner
          without strings
                    to gather dust.
 
Recalling music of brighter days,
they will remember the song and dance,
roosters chasing hens, the scent of
cinnamon and roses, the spinning of raw silk
          into thread.
 
Now the dog lives alone,
behind the locked gate, emaciated
and lonely, longing for his housemother,
who had cared for these living things
          until she became ancient
                    –blind, deaf, crippled.
 
The life cycle of silkworms leaves less tattered
          a garment.