The monk’ s taking pictures
of what he made, this sand
painting in the lobby
of our library. We’re standing,
waiting for what will happen
to his million colored grains.
One of Buddha’s born designs.
He’ll sweep into his hand,
to let his prayers sift back
into Compassion’s vase.
I thought I was only here
to browse, to take out a book,
this late Sunday afternoon.
And not to walk by
and stop. To want
to hold what he was holding
for the mean time. Our invisible
hour glass. When a woman
nearby asked if he felt sad
letting go of what he made
(all that beautiful mind)
he didn’t quite say No.
Said. It’s natural, like death.
instead. Dismantling what
it took to free this kind
of love-making. What I found
myself doing as quietly
as I could, taking a picture, too,
for another time.