Over the ridge
crowned with a halo of haze
from Saturday’s waxing moon
the chapel bell
booms

and for a moment
all creation
shudders
in November’s purple twilight.

The earth blurs
beneath my feet
and I am afraid
that the bell will shake
and shake
until everything comes undone
and I am torn apart
like a libation
poured into the rattled remnant
of a world
cascading into pure Being.
I am evaporating away,
the last pathetic drop
quenched by a molten sun,
a lingering splash of autumn
cracked and shriveled
by the creeping cold.

But then the bell
booms
and everything files
into fragile order again,
eager to forget
that for one moment the world
was on the brink
of being broken
open
as if for one moment
it had to be so.