The goldfinch is a seamstress—
her beak, a needle
in a haystack
of sunflowers.

In Chandni Chowk market, people weave together.
Warp and weft thread together in opposite directions.

In the land where clouds sit between the mountains,
Where bamboo groves ring with the insect song of claves,
Where clouds stroll in and out of valleys like smoke up the chimney, or under the doorsill,
Still the smoke of the wood-fired hearth crosses the path among the bamboo groves.

White clouds hang between mountains like sheets:
The sky is airing its laundry.

Clouds between mountains drift like snow;
The valley is alive with the pulse of the cicada.

Even the jacked-up hood
perched
over the testy engine
frames
potted plants
in blossom.

Even the bee
wears
new breeches
of yellow
pollen.