Autumn Mirror

The mirror pretends to be accurate and loyal;

perhaps to protect itself from its depth.

It agrees while it feels indifferent and reserved. However,

truly, sometimes it escapes from its frame, seeps, undulates

like grayish-green water, slips under the hallway window;

when later we descent the wooden small ladder

we recognize that the yard creek that flows under

the trees, under our chairs, is the same melted, hallway

mirror of this countryside hotel. And we’re meant

to change the water again into the big mirror so we can

see our naked faces in it with the two big, determined

eyes behind the yellow leaves.