Fulfilment

My pond is almost dry. On thin, brown stalks
there's small, red lotus over brownish leaves -
unprepossessing. Lusher growth wants water
but there's no lotus in the river, not
a single flower, just some scattered petals:
sweet frangipani with its drowsy smell
of dusty temple grounds, and offer tables
the morning left replete, deserted now
and silent in the blazing inland heat.
The friendly river takes them, cradles them -
I, on the coast, await their coming. High
above, clear sky - as distant and remote
as those white petals. When they reach me here
they'll find me staring up at them, the sea
my resting place, its changelessness my peace.