Wren in the Vervain

Sprung from the sacred verbena family
it is a small bush to be the pulpit for
the piercing exhortations of this
pert-tailed demagogue who counterpoints
his transport with shrill repetitions of
the text. Under a spray of leaves, veined
and translucent as stained glass,
sun-dappled and light-stirring in the
slow air of noon, he bubbles out his strain
in repeated cascades of tremolo until
the flowers over his choir loft, the tiny
purple, tube-shaped spikes, that resemble
a miniature candelabrum, shake and quiver
with his fervor. His brown feathers
swell and diminish in the paroxysm of
his faith, the white clerical bib at his
throat trembles over the full cup of
treble notes he sprinkles on the heads
of his congregation. He memorizes by
recitation as the hours drift slowly past,
the summer apostle entranced with his tune.