Less is more

She sways ahead
on the moss-muted path,
brushed by minute flowertip scents
of honeysuckle, spiraea, clematis.
She is modestly gowned,
revealing only her neck.
Naked above plunging hyacinth silk
the pliant nape rises to hair
whose blackness blends with the night
as we step up to the porch.

She slips off her zorii,
pairing them netly to one side
and I, I must bend to pull off my shoes
clumsy with Western motion that is
all angle and implied buises.
She smiles welcome, slides back
a translucent door, draws me inside.
As I pass, her fragrance wafts to me
and alone adorns the plain corridor
leading to another sliding door.

Her gesture invites me to sit
and I do, on a cushion she has provided.
In tiny blue-vined cups she serves tea.
There is not enough for one deep sip
but I understand. It is ceremony,
and we hold our cups in fingertips
and our passion in other bowls.

Politely, she offers more tea
and politely, I decline.
Nodding, she stands and,
in lovely, fluent rhythms I am to remember when all other memory eludes me
in broken-down age, begins to unwind
from around her waist the long,
silken obi.