Sanctum Compendium
Christopher Moya
There is wealth in a swathe of meadow rue
Or a sundry nosegay dusted blue,
Fastened with a string of pink pique,
Left to lounge on linens sunned that day
Or sunk in a pipkin, waiting to be found.
There is wealth in a weather vane freshly spun
And cursive cranes stepping in berry stems,
Waggish in the cabbage heads
That loll in a windrow quickened with sepals,
Each heron easy under melees of hornets.
There is wealth in aberrant sea stacks, backward-aimed,
Like wings of frozen chariots charging the stellar deep-
Glories of stone hewn by ocean lips
Lapping the powder-shore, unloading freights of sea
In scatterings of foam and tentative pools where feet just were.
There is wealth in lovers' whispering,
In the pianissimo of newly wed kissing
As they lie Drowsy and cool under open-armed oaks.
In their dew-drenched voices, Miscellany fountains spring
Like comely zeals in faces lit with yes-
The stretching of teeth and squint of eyes
Whose concord is darling,
Whose melody is prettiest
When all the heart's hosanna is outward-flourished.
There is wealth in jasmine, a teapot's siren,
And cinnamon stalks angled in ajar,
Scones enough to nap all day
With reveries like Chardonnay,
Like fragrant afterwards of rain.
There is wealth in a single sigh
For such high hallelujahs of lying in arms,
The scent of just beyond cedar,
Small glories after chrysalis.
There is wealth in a symphony-
The clarion brass and woodwind menagerie,
Giddy bassoons groaning, sopranos owl-hooting,
The shyness of flutes whistling in the ah
Where bows skate over strings
Whose unison is such wings; the lyric asylum;
The grandeur, spring, and anthem of under stars;
A dialogue of hearts, whose thunder and rhapsody
Are sung firesides, in whose sylvan embers
We collapse, each in the other-in life's lee-
If only for a moment
To breathe.
|
