Glass Poetry Press

Volume Three Issue Two

Luanne Castle


In this perfectly off-center palo verde tree the digressions fall away. Christ's fourth avatar sleeps in a karated gold pagoda. The pilgrims search for dust with a metallic taste. A hummingbird's snoop into yellow bells transmutes into the clapper of the so-called miracles. Well. Miracles or mysterious occurrences, maybe misreadings. From this focus, the architecture is the tree, a holy manger nesting the saguaro cacti, offering Eucharist for burros and jackrabbits, sanctuary for the songbirds. In my confusion, I read the wrong miracles. God's toolbelt begets stained glass mirrors of beatitude, where incense smokes through silver filigreed sieves, fogging the view of the palo verde, the Ark of the holy secrets. Thank God toolbelts unbuckle, their great weight tumbling down to the ground from which the palo verde grows.