A Monk Story

The monk in orange
Sat silently stirring
Concentric circles in the soft sand slowly,
Index finger rippling through
The cool glazed sparkles,
The blacks, whites, browns, pinks.

He watches the circles form and fail and re-form,
The sleeve of his robe twisting gently over
The careful designs.

He blows wind through the long tube.
Listens for the bell chiming evening prayer.
He brushes the excess from his smooth palms and runs them over his empty head:
Empty of everything
Cares
Worries
Stresses...
Hair -
(Its loss as he ages goes unnoticed)

He eats the simple meal:
Bread
Vegetables
Water.

He prayers the necessary prayers
And exits to his cell
Door click clacking behind him.

He kneels at the bed on bruised knees
And lifts the straw-filled mattress.

The torn and wrinkled portrait stares up at him
Her hair trickling over her pale right shoulder,

He traces the collarbone and feels the breath catch in his chest -
He will never reach Nirvana.