Buddha Solidifying from Incense

  Caused by Bing’s AI as instructed by the sonneteer.

The sounds of worshipers and tourists fade

As evening tidies up.  From in the pond

A quiet rises through the temple shade.

Perhaps a twilight meaning from beyond

The monks who had their meal, then settled down,

Is dimpling through the air and maybe not.

The dusk is neither smiling nor a frown.

Since every bowl and chopstick, every pot

Is cleaned and stored away, a common calm

Not nearly sacred spreads around.  The flowers

Turn down their fragrances, a silent psalm.

The temple broods about its spirits’ powers.

  A holiness arises.  As a bell,

    The silence, rings.  Day’s incense turns to gel.

~ Phillip Whidden