We share a bench among the wild-flower borders,
stinging with heat, the hiss of grasshopper all around.
She chats away in Japanese.
I sigh a glass-blower's sigh, make ready for silence.
Her perfect fingers begin to dance,
weaving silk from air. I follow, my hands scribbling.
Our gestures grow brighter, bolder.
They tell of tumbling sea otters, or is it the spooling of wool?
Of warblers carrying clouds on their backs,
a shore at low sun, its orangey glow, and the thrill of paddling.
Of cherry blossom, pink clustered parks,
the splash of Spring rain.
I think of bringing you to this garden
but could our damp words make it blaze?
As the moon rises over the old house,
stirred by Night Blooming Jasmine, I learn to say