Picking Up Shiny Things

In Kyoto

My restless sleep is shantung now.
I have mislaid the weightless surrender
that held no knots or slubs. Instead
I touch the poorly stitched threads
of recollection that unravel at my touch.

You bound me once in fine jacquard,
the raw fiber spun with thrust and verse.
I was a curled leaf in your brocade
cloak, gladly woven near the root
of a stunted maple that arched
across your back. It was enough
then to rest in a raised shadow
that your fingers sometimes found

Do you wear me still, tangled
in the lace petals of a plum
bower, waiting for winter
to reveal my face? Bamboo
and pine cover your sleeves
of snowy silk. How supple
they are in the icy wind.

It is August and I toss beneath
an unembellished sheet. In my dream
I am sewing arabesques and drifts
of frozen flakes up and down
the night-hued lining of your haori.