Sonam Chhoki

And yet ...

you hold my hand and smile – old photograph

It's May again. I no longer ask why. That moment you slipped away without a murmur returns each first light and with the last trace of sun on the ridge.

Early monsoon rain drips off the pane. My lament of words not said, moments lost in small talk and thoughts I dared not express, drowns in the monks' chant and their chorus of thighbone trumpets and longhorn.

Relatives, old and young, squeeze my hand and whisper:

'Tears shackle, obscure the path to the bardo, stop the dead from seeking new rebirth.'

I nod

and yet ... in the full moon your empty bed

This haibun appeared in David' Lanoue's "Issa anniversary thread."