I sit upon the porch of the garden

My box, my cage

my small delight

A breeze pats my cheek

as I raise my gaze

to the red leaves

of the momiji tree

It stands in the center

with a half ring of camellias

blossoming beside it

Its long branches

sway in the wind

as fingers do

when weaving silk threads

In the frame of my mind

I glimpse a fragment

of an image

A small dusty room

with a lingering scent

of lacquer

but with a loom

seated within

The steady sound of weaving

knocking, echoing