All that is left

All that is left,

as the white-robed monks bow and turn,

passing with the shuffle and creak of foot on wooden floor,

as man and woman follow,

one by one taking reverent leave,

is stillness.

Rumpled altar cloth;

empty cup and plate.

Smoke of snuffed candles

melts, yields

to the holy space;

like bread and wine in human bodies.

Dust motes drift;

A lightpull sways by the wall, and just

one strand of spider silk adorns the corner.

The high windows breathe wintery light

into the shadowed vault;

the walls hold wide their arms

and wait.