Weeping crones spin
lacy inflection, preying aghast
in moonlit reflection.
skin beneath pitaya
crawl slowly up
The God of Fire holds court
at his temple, wrapped in roses
of tear-shed loss,
his flaming sword belies indignation
to those below — his subjects bow.
When I was a child these stories
enthralled me, their vivid allure
lit flame in my mind.
As I have grown older
in innocence’ blur, wistful remembrances
suffer my smiles for the lady who told them
as if she had seen them, dear to
me still in this sweet lullaby.