The myrtle's pink silk frills, that bow
its slender branches to the ground
then drop, and blow in drifts around
Sing praise
The unhurried travel of the vine
that climbs the gate, and steady, winds
its stems, and opens green leaves wide:
Doxology
The yellow shiver from the trees
where the shrill cicadas scream
to shake the air, scraping their wings
Sounds praise
The bright sweet waft of fragrant mint,
rosemary's pungent piny scent,
and savory thyme like incense lift
Doxology
The mockingbird that shears the sky
like silver scissors, with a liquid cry
flowing to harsh laughter, dry
Sings praise
We however wall ourselves up in thick metal,
swaddle ourselves in treated air and the stereo sound
of popstar inanities, idiotic anthems that drown out
the engine's roar. So insulated do we rush
on thick paved streets from box to windowed box
through a world of praise
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