It is cool in the mountains in the blue hour. Damp, magical, choired with birdsong. The dew has settled on the grass, drips off the vestal, white orchids that spot the path to the village below. Orange Buddhist robes skim over wet grass. The monks form a bobbing line of shaved heads, their shivering stomachs full of prayers. Bare feet walk as one. When they reach the village, they will collect alms to feed themselves and their fellow monks waiting at the monastery—this day, day of days, every day. Warm bread, congee, pickled vegetables. Soon there will be steaming bowls, cold spring water in metal cups on a plain oak table.

dessert—
leftover slice 
of moon 

Lynne Schilling

While Lynne Schilling has been writing poetry on and off for forty years, she began writing it seriously four years ago at age 75. Her day job was as an academic in an entirely different field. She has published poems in The Alchemy Spoon, The New Verse News, New Verse Review, Quartet Journal, Rue Scribe, and others. She has a poem forthcoming in Lucky Jefferson.

Author’s website: https://lynneschillingpoetry.com/