are pressed into crevices of limestone.
Their limbs, their bones, are smaller now,
pebbled or smoothly pleated. Their shrouds
have attained the quality of paper.
Tresses? Eyelash hair? These have become
slight as wind, but brittle. Removed from
village life, they do not care if animals
inquire into their secrets, hoard seeds
or feathers in the louvres of their ribs.
Nights dark as ink, then dawns
splayed through blue fingers of pine.
If it were here and whole, the heart
would think this was a nest.
“Let heaven and earth be my coffins…” ~ Chuang-tzu
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.