Yesterday, while clearing out the Library which we use as a dumping site for all the overflow of our house, Payson discovered that the rugs we had folded up and shoved into a closet were coated with moth larvae that had eaten up large chunks of the wool pile. They were so many that they had changed the design and landscape of the rugs, which now had white dashes on their designs and bald patches on them where they had consumed an entire area of pile.
It was upsetting. These wonderful, expensive, hand-knotted, woolen rugs dyed in vegetable dyes had to be thrown out. I dare not take them back into the house from where they lay scattered in the sunlight, pupating, and hatching prematurely in the sunlight and heat. Last week I had discovered my favorite black Cashmere sweater had ten large holes in it. Now I had discovered the source of the damage, and I was going to get rid of it.

Like these material, literal moths, the Moth of Time has been at work inside and outside my body, too. It leaped up and flew at my face when I brought out, at Payson’s request, a copy of my book of poems, RADHA SPEAKS, and looked at my photograph on the back cover. Here it is. It speaks for itself. 

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