The minutes like millenia
move past the impermanent edifice
that might have been my face in the mirror.
Foliage sprouts from fissures
where no fissures, no foliage had been before.
Where the roof thatch has gone off to
has not been documented.
If our bodies are temples,
this holy house is showing its antiquity.
The pillars creak and the plumbing,..
never mind the plumbing.
Let's not talk about the plumbing.
On certain festival days,
the pitted facade shines like alabaster.
When the little goddess visits
the lamps and candles are lit.
Within the mossy pile of stones,
my heart shines out to greet her.
Today we shall not worry.
Today we are hers and she is ours.