From a tower, at the first hour, a bell

Tolls thrice, the summons for monks to come pray.

None who walk the midnight garden can tell

One flower from another.  Each is gray.

All is a colorless ghost of itself.

Thick clouds obscure all but the fiercest star.

Old pots of ash are now lining a shelf

In the cold, stone house which no one need guard.

Once, through the fenestration, light welled here,

A paradise about to be revealed.

Through the carved door, incense, a hymn to hear.

At the end of an aisle, I saw you kneel.

Now, without you, the petals of prayer die

On the altar.  Ravens caw from on high.


August 10-15, 2013

August 25th, 2015

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s