Processional

Think what the demotic raindrop felt,
Translated by a polar wand to keen
Six-pointed Mandarin—
All singularity, its Welt-
Anschauung of a hitherto untold
Flakiness, gemlike, nevermore to melt!
But melt it would, and—look—become
Now birdglance, now the gingko leaf’s fanlight,
To that same tune whereby immensely old
Slabs of dogma and opprobrium,
Exchanging ions under pressure, bred
A spar of burnt-black anchorite,
Or in three tidy strokes of word golf LEAD
Once again turns (LOAD, GOAD) to GOLD.
—James Merrill