Key
poem and photo by Gemma Mathewson

Step - sweep - tap,
Step - sweep - tap,
the monk advances.
His garnet robe
grazes the floor.

As still as the Himalayas
that rise above his gompa
he stood while we viewed
ancient tonka paintings.

Why now this curious dance?
I let the protective silk veil settle
back over the delicate pigments
and turn to watch the ritual
that now engages him.

Catching sparkles
from devotional oil lamps,
motes of dust billow from his toes
like the stylized oyster clouds
above the painted Buddhas.

Before his foot,
a large moth flees
buttery and translucent
in the flickering light.

Advance matches retreat until,
the moth senses the threshold
of the courtyard
flusters his wings, holds fast.

An impasse.
Toes curl in thought,
the veins of his temple
thrum beneath a crescent scar,
the monk reaches for an offering bowl,
redistributes the water
among the rest
and scoops the moth inside.

Above a row of sandals
and hiking boots
the monk uncups his palm
from the brass bowl.
The moth, denied a nest
of precious kangyur scrolls,
samples the wisdom of the wind.