After a Poetry Seminar

The ancient church well-restored

but my gaze goes beyond, to the shattered temple,

sunlight perching like a pigeon on its eaves.

The breeze inside our room

cannot dispel autumn’s damp.

About poetry, everyone has opinions,

some original, some clichéd.

The afternoon’s weary as an old cat,

sunlight drowsy on the rooftiles. How slow

the ceiling fan rotates its blades.

Afterward, the usual photos.

Uneasy, I look past the camera

at yellowed shots of missionaries,

the freshly whitewashed wall.

A friend insisted on this plaza

for all its history.

From its last standing wall

wheel twenty pigeons.

Amid the gaping tourists

we set our books upon the steps.

The wind’s mischief ruffles pages

for the sun to browse.

Some poems written well, some poorly,

the light indifferent.