MuseThatWeaves

She pulls out her phone to thumb the screen, Reading headlines, articles, darting eyes Between children and phone, article and account, Waiting in line-- “No, honey, we’re not getting it.” One child sulks and whines, pulling at her sleeve-- “Momma, momma, please, I want it--” Junk food all over the check-out, strategically placed, An impatient customer behind her huffed. “I said no, sweety, we have food at home,” She said stern, hauling the child into the cart To play the “hand me..” game instead. “Okay, honey, hand me…” She pulls out her Check, WIC, and the man b

Every year in the chill of April, DC plasters its subway Stations with news of the annual festival— Sakura Matsuri—to celebrate the blooming cherry blossoms. But I’ve walked the wide sidewalk of the Potomac, Touched the stiff buds of their dead branches, Hoping a shock of warmth would wake them. Despite the ill-timing of the festival, We can see pictures of them in bloom, Covering flags and fliers along 12th street. We came up from the Federal Triangle station, Surrounded by tall buildings of old architecture, And the sound of hundreds of walking feet. Patriotism bends, and kanji characters dance On banners only th

We layed back in cool grass, Our heads in our palms. Branches reached above us, Exploding color for autumnal finale. Dapples of cerulean peeked Between the leaves. The skies were clear and the sun Behind us; we gazed with wide eyes. "Why aren't we as beautiful as this tree before we die?" You asked. The tops of your white-capped Shoes barely above my cheeks when I swept my gaze down. "Yeah, we get old and wrinkly, don't we?" Question for question, pensive looks matched. Your feet wagged, turning the gears in your head And tickling my peripheral. "Maybe we're beautiful in other ways?" Tentative, searching, hoping you said Something right,

Grains, tiny grains, slipping through cracks into nothingness. Like glittering diamond dust the grains fall, catching light then fading into dull specks. The sound they make as they slip through your fingers is barely perceptible, a low swish across porcelain tiles. Wind teases the falling stream of granules, shifting the falling line into a curtain of sparkling lights winking in and out. You take another handful, testing the grip on a mass of miniscule things, then let the mass flow out of your hand into those dazzling curtains. It's beautiful, this display, the sensation of letting go of small things. It's liberating, watching them sli

Lost tradition and unknown origin—I miss shining rivers of crystal And sturdy highlands surrounded by green fields of glorious thistle. My heart longs for that missing piece of my family blood's puzzle, Where diaries talk of our homeland and preserve the thistle. Where is our pride as people of that rugged, beautiful terrain? We grow soft, buried under the frail rose and forsake the thistle. Can we return to that time, that place, where our colors danced In open field of the May pole celebration, wearing in our hair the thistle? All I have is a clan's plaque and know not of its authenticity. But my clan so proudly displays

Softly scampering through morning's dew, I stopped and espied the sun's hue: Wreathed in gold and her cradle blue, She bathed all our Earth anew. Spring doe and her fawn peeked from forest line To greet Sun's light with soft bleats and whines. Tawny rabbit thumped along to Nature's morning routine, And I sit in quietude to them observe and glean. O lo, sweet Natural pacing to and fro, What drives thine life's ebb and flow? Were I the doe my tumultuous mind would be simple, And were I the rabbit my troubles would be but ripples. Longing claims and holds my addled, troubled heart, But for Nature's sweet stage I play my observer's p

Reclined back with comforting recollection Smiling joy at my dream's simplistic perfection: It was a world where kimono silk gave us shelter And delicate pink cherry blossoms bloomed in winter. A teasing trot unfurled from strummed sitar's tune, Accompanied by wind's soft breath and bright moon. Gentle creek did course through our secluded vale, Whose serene respite only to us did avail. High mountains gleamed with snowy caps white Bathed in the caress of silvery moon's light. The shiver of sakura branches hid our embrace, Yet petals' rouge kiss on my cheeks left a trace. No words broke the natural symphony of sound For our gazes

I feel a grief so paralyzing and profound That I cannot bring myself from cold ground. No smile will grace my lips And a slouch bends me at hips. Nothing in me stirs to joy And all my thoughts do not me alloy Any passion or breadth of feeling; And my weeping heart is left reeling Without ground or rock to stand firm;   Where're I tread, I go forlorn. This waste land moor shall to me a grave be, Left to mine own thoughts grieved in solitary. Which mossy bank shall cradle my corpse, Envelope me neatly with blowflies in Earth's purse? The fog rolls and tumbles through dreary fen And reminds me of better times when: The morn