In the late afternoon we sat watching the lotus. A cool breeze took the edge off a hot day, but the water was still. How perfectly this leaf was rolled. We rolled our scattered thoughts together.
Nearby another leaf had begun to open, spreading itself gently across the surface. Finding support. Taking time.
Fluted edges rippling gracefully on the water, droplets glistening.
Radiating patterns, undulating curves, pink teardrop buds.
Fully open, stamens surrounding the central pod like a dancer’s tutu, held in the pink and white chalice of the bloom.
Dancing in the afternoon light, pods and flowers together, celebrating the lowering sun, turning their heads to whisper sweet secrets to each other. We bow, united, our dance concluding with the sunset.
On the day when the lotus bloomed, alas, my mind was straying,
and I knew it not. My basket was empty and the flower remained unheeded.
Only now and again a sadness fell upon me, and I started up from my
dream and felt a sweet trace of a strange fragrance in the south wind.
That vague sweetness made my heart ache with longing and it seemed to me that is was the eager breath of the summer seeking for its completion.
I knew not then that it was so near, that it was mine, and that this
perfect sweetness had blossomed in the depth of my own heart.