A Temple of Sorts

How blessed I am to be roaming
these halls lined with the works
of the masters.
Priests and Priesteses from
long ago and now.

I sit on a bench in awe
of that Monet, the one I
long for everytime I come.
The feelings that stir remind me of the old woman
at the Catholic Church downtown
who kneels and lights a candle
and prays.

This is a Sanctuary of the Spirit
you know, the inspiration
the passion of the lovers
as they kiss, the sadness
of the face of Salome holding
the head of John the Babtist.

So I wonder to myself
about the children running through
the halls and the teenager
gossiping on her cell phone.
They look and do not see.
They hear but do not listen
to the voices of the past.

I move from the Monet full
and satisfied to languidly wander
around the bronze lovers
entwined in my thoughts and reverent
my heart finds rest and sweet
repose, never tiring
of a rosey-hued apple sitting
in the morning light never
forgetting the power of a strategicaly
placed orchid.