Sisterhood

I found this poem on thee BEE-L mailing list
and tried to contact the author to ask if it had been published anywhere
but never got a reply.

I feel this poem resonates with the theme of this blog.

      SISTERHOOD

Our abode is modest—small wooden boxes

painted cloister-white, scattered upon a

sunny hill.  There we sustain our meager

existence on eager diet of water, honey, and

pollen we gather in the wild.

We are all filial piety.  We cluster around

our Mother Superior, who bore us into our

existence.  We will defend her, our abode, and

our way of worship to death.  Kamikaze runs

in our veins, and we each carry a dagger.

Daily we divide our simple chores: baby-sitters,

maintenance crews, guards, and hunter-gatherers.

Practicing Puritan work-ethic, we trod miles to

collect nectar, our bread and butter.  Unsung

environmentalists, we live in perfect harmony.

We seldom talk, never balk, for we know talk

is cheap.  We communicate in silence and a few

body-languages.  We respect tranquility—-our

modus operandi.  We do have a few men around

for emergency.  Like most men, they wax their

one-track minded thoughts day in day out.

Large mouths, they consume three times as much,

and when they are around, they call too much

attention to themselves.  They are expendable.

At the first sign of frost, we abandon them, for

they are big and fat and lazy and stupid.

We rise to work at the first hint of dawn; we

toil the natural soil till Vespers, the sixth of

the seven canonical hours.  Throughout our

hard lives none of us whine—-we are content.

When our body can no longer house our soul,

we know the time has come.

Quietly we leave our humble abode behind

to meet the face of our maker, alone.

Yoon