Awe

Yellow butterfly,

the monk removes his sandals

in awe of your grace.

Welcoming

Welcoming April—

even the monk in his cell

seems giddy with joy.

the trembling

of a wizened monk

at matins

Ploughing or praying—

even the monk cannot tell

which is holier.

novice monk at dusk

brushing from the Buddha’s lap

three dead butterflies

praying with the sun

at its rising and setting—

old monk swathed in red

one thin note rising

from the old monk’s bamboo flute—

hibiscus blossom