the arch

For how many months
did the stonemason toil at this
archway of smooth grey stone
which looms before me at
the pinnacle of irregular steps,
a sombre facade which
belies the warm and fertile
soil hiding within. A beacon
for those whose past is a tangle
of wild and untended thoughts,
weeds which struggle to find purchase
in the starved earth, gasping for nutrients.
The way ahead is lined
with ornamental cherry trees in bloom,
the path blanketed by a layer -
paper thin petals grown heavy
with the day’s drizzle of rain,
fallen. A plaque above denotes
the generosity of one devout spirit,
eternally grateful for Her
welcoming embrace and
the stained glass Virgin bestows her
beatific smile
upon those who pass beneath
the great stone construction.
A glance to the left reveals
gossamer-winged butterflies
lighting upon turnsole,
pink and blue. Salvia divinorum,
the seer’s sage clusters
about the wheel of a rusted barrow
from which fragrant culinary herbs tumble
silvery and sweet and begging to be tasted upon
the tongue of this humble servant
striding toward Salvation.