Still Sitting On Sunday

In the morning light, heart decals on the window shape a shadow on the golden wood of the butsodan/fireplace/room divider/Wall of Buddhas.

Incense drifts through my line of vision like wispy scented clouds.

A raucous murder of crows chant sutras in a foreign language.

In kinhin, the crunch, crunch, crunch, sqlch, sqlch of feet punctuates the air as we walk as one.

Inside I dance with my sadness, embrace my fears, weep with my heart and then find peace and joy in the tears rolling down my cheeks and the drip drip from my nose into my cupped hands.

Here now, silently supported by the still presence of sisters and brothers, sitting as one.

I live on Faithful Street.