Again we walk a garden
with the lily's clever talking around us.
Green satin no tailor sews,
trees putting on their hats.
A drumming begins, and we play along
on the drums of our stomachs.
The lake that was ice and iron
now is ridged in the wind like David's chainmail.
A voice says to the herbs, Rise up.
The mystic crane returns.
The humiliated ones dress and show
their heads in windows again.
There is a public concert on the tomb of January.
The willow shakes its head.
Those we thought were lost are back.
How the sun is with plants
is evidence enough.
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At the request of a Rumi Reader, I have enabled comments, because I agree that someone, sometime might want to write about the power of Rumi's words. So many times they have met me in ways I just have to share, and so I want you to have that opportunity here. There is no expectation for comments, but please do write something if you feel the urge. ~ Ruth