by Terese Coe
There may be seven roofs, or five, or nine,
and each one smaller than the one before,
as if a seedling sprouted smaller rice grains,
and in each grain a sky could be adored.
Tier to tier and pitch to pitch display,
engage, ascend. On finials the glance
of Surya, god of the sun, ignites the day.
Wind bells ring, and solid metals dance.
The teeming woodcarved strut, the snout and fangs,
the bronze relief festooned with snakes of gold,
the cradled space between the overhangs,
the petals, rice, vermilion, as of old.
Copyright © 2009 by Terese Coe.