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