Standing in the yard,
my face turned up to the sky;
soft blessings of rain.
Shimmering orange
of the tree’s pyrotechnics;
the dark bracken rests.
Backlit by a flame
I see my projection,
watchfully waiting.
I look down to see
two old hands resting on my lap;
winter is coming.
I was thinking of
the purity of lotus blossoms,
and slipped in the mud.
