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.