When the Empress Hsi Ling-Shi,
veiled in imperial ennui,
lifted the floss floating in her glazed bowl
of tea and unraveled the skein
of the silk worm's cocoon
for the very first time,
could she have foreseen
a world of robes and banners,
kimonos musical against the skin
and soothing to the eye as the sheen
of her vessel or the blue-green
shine of a new-fallen bird's feathers
rubbed by morning sunshine,
and if so should I wish
to thank that lady as you kiss
your flesh with bird-print silk?
Listening to the sleeve's wide whisper,
should I weave, against a world
as common as cotton,
a replenishing shrine high
in the hospitable mulberry tree?