Monday, February 16, 2009


A worm spins ceaselessly

encasing itself to change

from humble self to self flying free

Rudely disrupted in midlife

Are those dross or silken strands

My family history lies in a book

back in the village of my ancestors

Each name a word in a story

penned one character at a time

I cannot tell if the story is high drama

profound philosophy

or conundrum of humanity

My family favored unisex names

for the girl children

prospering us with fortitude

In cattle class of cargo ships

we arrived as brides not adventurers

Oh, ancient grandfather,

which third wife wept relief

at the death of Lao Yeh’s first lady

which patriarch cursed heaven

at rivers of female progeny

which daughter, breath resolute,

awaited the birth of Young Sir

Parsing truth from desire

we pick the threads apart

Redeeming the spinners’ sacrifice

weaving new designs of hope

we write our fate

1 comment:

Laurie Gudim and Rosean Amaral said...

I love this poem. esp.: "prospering us with fortitude" -- and the whole last stanza.

I think of all the aspects of life touched by the spinners' sacrifice, all the permutations of hope created as we write our fate