Temple

My heart, like the temple at Kyoshu,

is on a windy foot-worn highway,

far above the sea and open to all sides.

Yellow butterflies

play around the clapper of a rusted bell;

I am finally at peace.

Many strangers, who wander and search,

come by that way, looking elsewhere.

It is not their destination—

far from the crux of the road,

and slight shelter from the wind and sun.

But one can pause for a moment there,

contemplate the wind playing through the bell,

break off a crooked walking-stick—a branch

of early almond blossoms—

and go on the way again.  Perhaps

a little brighter-eyed, or forgetting to limp.

—Christie

(spring/summer 1979

Oakland/San Francisco)