This fall morning
in the park
I walk through an avenue of
magenta Liquid Ambers
to think about
the meaning of sacred.
And the technicolor stage
of my mind opens
to Nepalese temples
donned with golden marigolds
French cathedrals
housing jeweled crosses
enclosed relics
too holy to touch.
When I awake from
cinematic array
the radiant sun
winks over the mountain.
I am wading
through piles of leaves
crunching and swirling.
And I don’t know how
it happened but
I begin asking
why the wind isn’t considered sacred
as she waltzes with molting trees
coxing, plucking them to let go
promising spring.
And why aren’t the heaven reaching ambers
themselves sacred?
Roots hold Gethsemane wisdom
confirmed with indelible faith
as if anointed by a Bishop
that they will not die
but resurrect.
And what about other
exquisite creations of the universe:
blue jays crazy yattering
on naked branches
an eagle’s high shriek
cascading in the
ceiling of sky?

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