Spathes (
Guardian)
As I grew in my ancestral
home, I used to see in
my spacious garden nurtured
by my grandparents:
coconut tree and
palm tree,
their swaths, dried sheaths
so close by, twined together
swinging and in summer wind
falling off like a thud, driving
all the inmates from the adjoining
balcony.
How often, I have seen my
Grandfather twirling broomstick
from the lengthy yards of sheaths
not as a past time but as one useful
mode of making and improvising
nature’s bounteous products.
Grandma stored up those green
as well as stiff,
brown spathes
for winter’s
lean season.
Dried parts,
husks, we
women are not meant to be like that.
Nonetheless we are treated by men
In all ages, As wind sweeps, let all
this bigotry and narrow-minded ness
be quelled; marching ahead for a path
of consciousness in this canoe of
light wooden structures ahead of strong
future steady and
stable.
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