The flutes sing

om mani padme hum-

crimson red, crisp pink

flowers on a white window sill-

juniper and pot

sweetly hover up

a creaky staircase.

Outside the glass pane,

dim light on a still

sleepy valley, the glow

slowly grows on

mountain shapes.

Gold snow, cheery like bronze

shines for an instant.

On the patio below

the porters shuffle

foot to flip-flopped foot,

each breath a solid mass

of whispy white smoke

in still cold air.