The Monk on the Sidewalk

My glance out of the pane
catches sight of his walk,
As he slowly makes his way.
In days of old and perhaps
Rarely today, one may see a monk
Gliding, head down, carefully.

Now, the image comes to mind,
As that memory looks for me.
Again I feel the dichotomy
Of his life, where pain and aspiration
Lived side by side.
Where Soul and the stress of
A torn psyche did abide.
A reminder of the war that
Kindled the inner fire.

I knew what he meant,
It seems for years.
How are we different?
We are and he isn’t.
The past weighs on him
And his shoulders lean
Into the wind.
But if you looked in
You would see.

Perhaps he was like the quiet Buddha’s
Of old that came and went, merely
To shake us of precipitating mold.
And just as we take notice that
Perhaps, something rare has unfolded,
He’s gone.
Except for the image of the monk
On the sidewalk.