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.
