Being Here

Lately, my favorite words are those that make
me feel the textures of things: cotton and copper,

eggshell, seagrass; waxed flax thread, bone folder, 
crease. When I am folding paper and cutting book 

board, the edge of the blade moving over the surface
makes a sound like a miniature zipper, only softer. 

Steam from the rice cooker scents the air.
Night drops its paper screen over the windows.

The shape of time softens into a spool, a bowl,
a box I made to hold a pair of tingsha bells 

joined by a leather cord. When their edges 
strike against each other, a clear ringing

radiates across the room. I notice the rain
falling in bright beaded strings outside.