GOLDEN MIRAGE

Another day attempts
to slide by in the shadows,
avoiding capture by pen and
journal, fleeing into night
where November clouds
provide infinite hiding places.
Or, perhaps, it will find shelter
in the blinding golden glare
of Pan Wat Lao Buddhadam,
that appears mystically
out of the Henrietta field.
It’s monk smiles, knowing
so very little English,
and I not a word of Lao.
But our gassho brings
the smile of the Buddha
and that, we both understand,
knows no language barriers.

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