In thanksgiving for the gift of a new friend who leaves tomorrow morning for the upper Midwest. Bob gave me a collection of poems by Rumi as part of his leave-taking. I have written here a number of times about the songs we are, and especially about the song that is the hermit, so that this poem seemed a perfect way to mark my own appreciation of the past few weeks --- and the nearing of Easter! Deo Gratias!!!
11 March 2013
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 non-existence,
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.
From Rumi, The Big Red Book, Coleman Barks
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