The Moth and the Bell
We stare at the bell,
no longer counting
the time until the car
will take us back
to the hotel. Earlier a monk
had said his prayers at dawn
but now there is only a moth
meditating on its equator until
it flies away, leaving not even
a shadow of purpose on the
smooth surface.
From out of our silence you
know that you are the
moth, delicate wings lifting
like the pages of a book
rediscovered, the words
faded but the story still
humming like the bell
long after the priest has swung
the beam and finished
his morning prayer.
I am not the bell.
I am not the priest.
I am the morning air
that carries the song
of the bell and then
carries the moth from
flower to flower, it’s
happiness the sweetest
prayer of all.