Cris de Borja

As measured as the falling sand encased
within its glass pours its grains,
Our delicate threads of friendship baste
the pieces of a new pattern.
With Silver Needles, we stitch the hour.
Steeped into the tea we share
A quiet kind of renewal is fixed ~
A steady seam, a sure repair,
And the tranquility of floating leaves,
Fashioned to unfurl like a flower,
To mend what I would have thrown away.
With a paper crane I give wings
to the words I cannot shape to say.
Invitations, and green tea ~
These things hold a simple power.

9/13/2005