The White Monk

There is a time of the day in winter,
When the sky sags beneath bulging dark clouds
And the sun tussles to penetrate the shroud.
When all at once it breaks out
Shining like the jewel in a burnt black crown
Its rays illuminating this one particular column of windows
Hollowed into coarsely stacked green and concrete
Home to migrants and other flotsam that globalization excretes
Suddenly everything they touch turns golden
The houses ablaze in grandeur worthy of their inhabitants’ dreams
The tip of each bare branch glistens red and gold
The grass, the reed, the water all gold to behold
And then you float into the picture
A white flag ruffling gently in the breeze
A drop of dew as if the fire had burnt only to release,
Adorning a simple white habit, your mouth pale with the season
A monk drifting past, untouched by pageantry
The gilt flakes and shatters,
The clouds start settling in for a long dark night
The golden glow quietly withdraws, signaling a retreat of light
But there is still that fleeting moment when all elements concede
The simple, tranquil intensity bestowed in white.