galaxies scattered around their feet
The Music We Are
Did you hear that winter is over?
The basil and carnation cannot control their laughter.
The nightingale, back from his wandering,
has been made singing master over all the birds.
The trees reach out their congratulations.
The soul goes dancing through the king’s doorway.
Anemones blush because they have seen the rose naked.
Spring, the only fair judge, walks in the courtroom,
and several December thieves steal away.
Last year’s miracles will soon be forgotten.
New creatures whirl in from nonexistence,
galaxies scattered around their feet.
Have you met them?
Do you hear the bud of Jesus crooning in the cradle?
A single narcissus flower has been appointed
Inspector of Kingdoms. A feast is set.
Listen. The wind is pouring wine.
Love used to hide inside images. No more.
The orchard hangs out its lanterns.
The dead come stumbling by in shrouds.
Nothing can stay bound or be imprisoned.
You say, End this poem here, and wait for what is next.
I will. Poems are rough notations for the music we are.
Rumi
troutpasta 