Does it move too fast, the planet?
Is the Sufi dancer, spinning
(one hand toward heaven, and one toward earth)
in ecstasy yet? Do we ever get there?
Does the woman in the kimono,
another meditation,
feel her motion around the sun
as she turns the cup toward the guest?
The silk blurs from cherry blossom to chrysanthemum
in a sip.
In another room, the dancer’s brown cap
takes flight
as a sparrow.

– Kay Winter

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