In the Charnel Ground
by Alta Brown

On the way
to the charnel ground,
my heart beat hard
at my throat.

But it was clean
there
and spare.
Small stone piles
marked the ashes.
The afternoon sun was very bright,
and the air was empty.

When I called the beings without bodies,
I was ready
for any terrifying thing:
anything dark and fanged,
anything contorted and ugly,
anything with long, sharp claws
and bulging eyes.
I was ready to hold my seat
if anything settled down around me.

But, instead,
in the shade where I sat singing,
the sun rose behind my eyes,
and I was shyly, gently
welcomed
into joy
and the unseen sight,
the shine, of beings made of light.

Is this the real secret,
Rinpoche,
that
at the edge of death,
night falls off into
light?