Some say her task was weaving endless streams
of multicolored clouds, some others say
she wove a silver river through the night,
illuminating moonless skies. I've heard
she liked to bathe in wild streams: the sight
would cause migrating waterbirds to stray
off mythic paths, descending to be near

her amaranthine shape, hoping to hear
even a whispered song. Her form, unveiled,
caused ivory koi to blush. But one young man
drew close and stole her robe without a word,
then stood in silence, watching. She began
to rise, dripping, from waters, searched but failed
to find fit cover for her nakedness,

and found herself disposed to acquiesce,
with supple grace, to his exquisite sighs,
there on the bank beneath the willow boughs.
But through this gentle passion she incurred
her Golden Mother's wrath. Heavenly vows
echoed our hills. The goddess scratched the skies
in anger with her jeweled hairpin, made

the milky way a barrier, forbade
her daughter from returning, had her weave,
relentlessly, new clouds. Perched on a ridge,
the magpie heard her weeping, and the bird
summoned his flock. Their spread wings form a bridge
one night a month now, letting her receive
caresses she'd thought banished to past dreams.