Chandigarh, Union Territory, India
Now close to my seventh decade, footsore in worn out sandals, weary after so many journeys, especially the ones I did not take, I am a humble copy of age and time, a poor painting of myself with craquelure all over, akin to Dorian Gray. The surface frost encrusted web lines hide the crazing and stress of years of illusions, loneliness and illness. My veins are thrombosed celadon like the Ru ware Chinese pottery which someone described as "like the blue of the sky in a clearing amongst the clouds after rain."
leaf by leaf—
autumn cartwheels into
a Wyeth white
Note: the quote about Ru ware is from Wikipedia.