I thought to tip a pitcher and
Water the red silk rose;
A simple need to help beauty
O'ershadow life's last throes.

But it did not need help to live
For it was ne'er awake.
T'was the work of a worm, then hands
Moved carefully to make.

As made as the marker nearby,
A clear sign of time past,
And of the silk worm's kin freeing
Atoms beneath the grass.

I pictured them flying unbound.
Then my own spirit grew,
Nourishing my wondering thirst
And the red silk rose too.



Harry W. Yeatts Jr.