The language of bone


The old monk sits
at the long table
eating breakfast
appreciatively
on his own

I can't quite tell if he's in his own world
or this world
or perhaps he straddles both
(and maybe many more)
with old and monkish ease

One of the younger nuns
arrives with morning news and smiles
and laughter
hugging him to her side
as a granddaughter would a grandfather
as a friend would a friend

and then
she turns to face him
and bows her head down to his
until their foreheads gently
touch
wordlessly resting
skin to skin
skull to skull
bone to bone

a subtle light
​suffused with kindness
passes between them
and quietly ripples out into the world

​