The Shawl

I talked about needlepoint with a man from Kashmir.
Embroidering by hand leaves thread behind,
knots, looping pictures of browned fingers
busy through the Monsoon of June.
He told me he would make one for you
and send it charmed: for your shoulders, birds;
and for your arms, branches of Almond and Marigold.
So you will never feel the weight of it,
for the chill of the night or an aching heart,
warming pink falling petals confetti
to a delicate silver clasp,
fashioned by an old hand,
carved in the flowers of Royalty;
and imagined in the breeze, a butterfly ring,
fraying tassels trailing the back of your chair;
a fluttering around your shoulders before it gets there.