Leaves Of The Cecropia Tree

And what of privileged things     mur & frankinscense     or sandlewood    -     yes, teak, ambergris     or skies of indigo blue      -    I cite these gifts,     caravans offered as treasure     Christopher Wren putting     the domes of St. Paul     in place like worn spectacles     over a cherubic face.     The last gargoyle pops in sight     near Notre Dame     such cathedrals are whitened sepulchre     stones in "stately     pleasure domes     decreed".     I see the Taj Mahal     where Mahatma Gandhi might have trod.     The utterance of a tulip     in every parable Christ talked;     rosebuds gleaming milk     on the breath of lilacs     their shields of lilies     shone where Solomon walked.     Song of Songs is none other     than the poet's heart,     water across stones.     a warm sun working double shifts     as a pitchfork stacking memories     on a summer's day     shooing aside leaves of the Cecropia tree;     old Walt resting on a bench     mumbling his prayers.