Silk Roads

I dreamed
 of her again.
Always walking while unwinding and winding.
I saw the beautiful silk cloth woven in Turkey.
My mother brought it back with her and told me of the Haggai Sophia.

It remains in a box covering the tiny red wooden shoe
that is the only physical thing left from the day she had to go.
The box has traveled everywhere I have been for more than 30 years.

Over and over during darker nights she wanders wherever she wants.
Winding and unwinding while staggering through knee deep sand. Pebbled and dusty roads. Through icy tributaries.

Empress Leizu had no idea what the steam released when her tea soaked cocoon
let go the power of an ugly butterfly. It evolved as all insects do.
The very first flutter after life as a lazy, hungry caterpillar.
But sacrificed for the thread that wove a cloth laid down as the first cobble for a long way home.

This road once again is lit with the blue poppy that enables my comfort.
Morphine and silken purple sheets soaked in the oozing from crushed Murex snails
 but once again on the road to Damascus. To metamorphosis. Described as changing from one physical manifestation to another. Damascus is a destination not yet completed.

Winding and unwinding one more time. We are all walking in the same rutted road very sure of each layered step. Dragging thin threads to mark the way home. More effective than bread crumbs.