Jostled in a mug with other spoons,
This one – of hall-marked silver – came to hand.
I felt the fine-boned curves,
Its crazed bowl, bright with years of use,
The bottom flat, the edges thin as sharpened knives.
It was delicate as the form of a tiny bird.

Tonight, as I sat chanting,
I brought my palms together, cupped,
My bent thumbs touching, space for air inside,
and felt the memory of that shape arise.

It was as if it then took wing,
rose gently on the shining waves of sound,
and lifted, changing, skimming out of reach.

Full Moon Day
January 2007