RICE

I recall, in front of the grocery,

sinking my hand in dry rice,

the sack’s faint whiff of paddy,

some grains partly husked,

fine sand against the fingers,

the wriggling speck of a grain weevil.

I’d shift the mound,

rice slipping from my palm

like sand through an hourglass.

Now I touch cool plastic,

vacuum slabbed,

grit sieved, pearly grains

packed as characters in a poem.

From a shelf,

buyers choose safe brands.

Rinsed if you like,

we still gather round the warmth,

and as the chopsticks rise and fall

breathe the old fragrance.