The silk is so shiny smooth,
A polished feeling on the skin,
A fashion statement sure to win,
Showing that I am in the groove.
The powerful thread from worm spun,
And, the loss of its cocoon,
Gives the weaver fabric soon,
The silk cloth is by violence won.
Still, there may be a synthetic choice,
The worm lives on, a butterfly,
Uniting its will with heaven’s sky,
An attentive effort, needing voice.
Egg, larva, moth is the rhythm’s pace,
And, the robe small or great,
Peace silk’s effort in style’s estate,
Yielding, yes, to a larger grace.
Francis Conlon is a retired and recovering teacher. For the past 20 years, he has worked as a seasonal river ranger and boat inspector at Yampa River State Park in northwest Colorado. He has published in the local Valley Voice and in Westward Quarterly. He currently lives in Salt Lake City, Utah.