Silkworm

The memory of flight
a severed thread
as you spin
cradle, house, tomb.
All will be unwoven,
rewoven, dipped into
plum, aquamarine,
blue of early summer,
emerge with moon-
gleam still intact.
Centuries of immobility,
attending with subtle
patience to the fabric
of things (that is so
perishable): the Self
serves and weaves,
with instinctive vision
shapes its rebirth.