Giving Alms


Just before dawn,
under prickly stars,
the shuffle of slippers
is the sound you hear;
it is the sound
that wakes the sun.

They are monks
meandering to huts
of straw and earth.

Every morning they return
to fathers, mothers,
brothers, sisters,
to ask for alms,
food for life.

Their saffron robes flap;
they shiver
cradling black lacquer bowls.

They do not hurry
nor huddle;
they embrace suffering
like a glowing peach
its seed.

You scoop for them
a mound of steaming rice,
limp greens.

You watch them float away
into green hills;
smoke curls from
gleaming heads
like halos.