Empty Bowl

The last leaves cling to wet trees
and I am hungry for deep silence.
My small bowl is empty,
not a single grain of rice
to share or eat.
I sigh
and sink
into the
soft
down
ticking
of my body.
In the shelter of one votive’s light,
I lie listening to the rain,
drawing my bowl close,
feeling the shape of its truth:
my bowl is full…
of emptiness,
a hollowed place
made ready
for the feast to come
when I am satisfied with emptiness,
when I am full of silence.