The Temple

In the center of the clearing in the park there is a temple,
guarded by a circle of high rise Fir pillars,
their arms dressed up with long drooping sleeves,
here and there glistening with prisms of dew drops as the sun pierces through,
and the Firs crane their long necks, all bending towards the center of the clearing
in a concave reverence to what mysterious power?
The sleeves of their long magician robes,
long strips of fabric randomly cut through by invisible scissors,
leave a narrow passage for streaks of soft opalescent sunrays
that brushes leaves with splashes of transluscent green and covers the top with silver varnish.
Right in the heart of that straight sheet of light,
a cloud of golden bugs dance, in small groups or in couples,
tirelessly drawing eights in the air.
An Arbutus tree stands in the shade,
with its cracked, peeling saffron skin lit by the sun, turning it into an incandescent tree of life.
And as I crane my neck up, I have to surrender, and lie down.