She walks slowly,
one hand steady on a bamboo pole,
the other brushing sweat from her brow.
Her nón lá tilts just enough
to hide her eyes from the noon glare—
but not from time.
Wrinkles curve like rice terraces
around her mouth,
each one earned in a market stall,
a kitchen fire,
a monsoon season.
In her basket:
a few sprigs of rau thơm,
some salted plums,
and a small packet of incense
for someone she still talks to at the altar.
Children pass and barely glance.
Tourists lift cameras—
some ask, some don’t.
She keeps walking.
Not for the photo.
Not for the past.
But because the morning still calls,
and the rice still needs washing,
and the sky, even now,
is the same blue she remembers
from when she first wore that hat.