Monday, February 4, 2013


This evening's cravat was cinnamon silk with clustered pinstripes of metallic gold.  It was always the same dream, always.  She was in a marketplace of some kind, and it was hot, hot and dry and dusty, but there was a wind blowing.  It lifted the flaps of the brightly colored stalls that surrounded her, each one selling odd and exotic things.  There were fruits, some cut open and tantalizingly leaking juices.  She saw vessels of all shapes and sizes, some of gold and silver, some of earthenware.  As she walked, she saw a dark-haired woman suddenly at the end of her path, beckoning her.  The beauty wore a sari and many veils; only her kohled eyes and jeweled forehead were visible.  The wind blew harder and hotter; the woman appeared nearer.  A braceleted hand appeared from beneath the veils and held out a small urn.