by Joshua Gage
The fog gathers
its robe at my knees.
A wild goose cries,
lost from her flock.
Blown by Autumn winds,
I have become
dust upon the road.
Even my footprints vanish.
Deserted for twelve long years,
the crooked path
that leads to the temple
is overgrown with bamboo.
I sip tea on the broken steps.
In the firelight
crickets chirp an old hymn
from my village.
I tear off a piece of my robe,
write a prayer and burn it.
Its smoke drifts across the moon.
The night grows heavy as a mountain.
* * *
Replies