Kathryn Liebowitz
a length
The wall mirrors redouble the promise inherent in the loosely woven cloth. Ten, twelve, fifteen yards of dull gold theatrical scrim flowing across the counter. Enough to cover a wall of windows. The slice of the scissors echoes lightly off the wood surface. We are this, not that.
balancing
For years the translucent curtains warm every space, fit every widow in every house. We were this, then that.
the quadratic equation
Much later, the cloth tumbles out of a box; discolored, musty, the folds full of spiders and dust—and yet, still lustrous. As with saints, the afterlife becomes it.
nothing plus nothing
About the Author
The practice of haiku, haibun, and tanka brings Kathryn Liebowitz full circle, reviving her love of the minimal, the spare, and the fragmented. She draws inspiration from ancient and contemporary art and literature (Asian and otherwise). When not at her desk, she’s walking the woodland trails near her home in Groton, Massachusetts, or rock-hopping on the coast of Maine.