I weave jasmine buds, 

That form resonances—

When woven into a garland,

Infused with chants 

Become flowers,

Diffusing sensuous aroma 

In tessellations.

As I continue to learn to weave, 

My deeper transfiguration into Santoshi,

Makes me lonelier.

I weep for the deepest pain,

Sob in overwhelming release,

And blend with the interleave 

Of the slipstream.

But still, I ponder— 

Is this another doorway 

To more unraveling?

And when I open that door,

The process of interweaving

My mind with what I absorb,

Engulfs me

Into vivid cathartic tessellations.

And I am tired.

I am lonelier.

I see her glide the slipstream

But she does not come down 

To put her hand on my head—

Because I suspect she knows

That may not be enough.

For I need cafune’.