The light at dusk has changed
from crimson to a dark hued purple
and back to crystal whisps of haze
adorned by tiny flecks of gold.
A line of monks
in orange and saffron robes
meander from the jungle,
young faces
round
brown
kissed by the wet
evening breeze
which has awakened
the call of thousands
of cicada
sounding like a warning alarm –
shrill and jarring
in this sacred scenery.
The monks
weave their way
through the banyan trees,
past the knee high
rock walls that once
supported massive arches
adorned with the three
faceted face of Buddha
eyes closed,
a gentle
smile of one graced
and compassionate.
This place
has seen monks
from dawn to dusk
for hundreds of years –
felt their light
foot falls
in the rich earth,
heard their deep
and throaty chants-
embraced their silent prayers:
in this their soul’s refuge,
where fallen walls
contain all their deepest fears…..
Just past the brush,
a donkey stands
as if suddenly awakened:
he stares dead ahead
past the monks
into some unseen mystery
and the sky changes hue
once again.
In the distance
thunder roars,
and the monks quicken their step,
their robes a thin
line of color
fading in the oncoming
darkness.
In my mind’s eye
I climb
into their wooden begging bowl
close,
ever so close
to their lotus heart.