- Mira Mataric
Droplets of Time
In the Silk Room
of the Pacific Asia Museum
alone
I am touching different silk items
eyes shut
all other senses open
mind lushly replacing the sight
history seeps through my fingers
the smell of the caravan with camels
stench of human and animal sweat
thirst
silk too has an odor
not strong but enduring
gentleness should not fool you
the persistent droplets sculptured mountains
one rain at a time.
- Constance Griesmer
Wandering Instances
Every year, when the journey
begins to weary me
I tell myself lit will be made.
This year it is finally finished
as the profits shrink,
tensions flare
the desert sun glares hotter
the dunes seem higher.
Here is the yellow flower
that bloomed one morning
and withered the next.
There the birds, hungry
flying low to catch tossed grain.
Black borders are my last memories
of stitches on my mother’s robe
handed down by her mother.
Behind this curtain,
I sleep contented,
as every now and then
the slowing breeze of the steppe
caresses my face.
Nine-square cushion
color-rich sudoku
fills the weaver’s mind.