In Paris I gathered buckeyes
near the Eiffel Tower.
In Rome I watched children
going to school across the street
from the Sistine Chapel.
Crossing to England, I saw emerging
through the rain and fog
the White Cliffs of Dover.
Sitting on a bench outside
Buckingham Palace.
I asked a Philippino lady
what she thought of it.
She hesitated, smiling.
I volunteered my impression
softly, bullshit?
She giggled and replied,
yea, bullshit.
So what is my wagon pulling?
What am I keeping in my soul?
The mundane wonderful.
By which I sit, plant trees,
wonder, out of what wood and water
I am made.
Mary and I put fresh leaves
in a butterfly tent this morning.
We are feeding the children
of a dead mother.
A Luna Moth who placed her eggs
on the windowsill of our kitchen.
Now little caterpillars of pale jade
will make their cocoons with us,
and be delivered to the world
when they rouse, beautiful
and complete,
calling out to night a madrigal.
Eclipses of experience.