silence

the hall empties out
a final door bang
swirling papers

the tired monk sits
waits
reads a few more lines
by the dimmed night lights

closes his books
waits
dwells in the rare
deep silence

cold poem redux

harsh hammering rooftop sleat
low snow truck rumbles

the tired monk wanders
the night temple halls
tightens the windows
stokes the dying heath fire

waits it out
sipping warm sweet tea

acrued wisdom

slap sting face cold
doubled by
sweeping open space winds

a most cold cold duty
chip and dig out the path
these hardening white dunes

first...
slips in to woodstove warmed boots,
doubled layered robes and
thick Seahawks toque covering
this bald monk head

the work

beating a broken path

digging down

into solstice snow

the forest pond

flooded flat 

with well pumped water

discarded kitchen buckets

and broken boards

become the net

cold monk tends the goal

twisted stick in hand

robes whirling for a save

doing the work

Brother Ollie

the tired monk