Again, the new moon’s sharp sickle. Again, we form in procession. Again, March makes the ground a garden. Again, the lily talks slyly. Again, this green satin no tailor sews. Again, the trees put on their hats.
Spring drumming begins. We play along on the drums of our stomachs.
The lake that was iron ice
is now ridged in the breeze like David’s gentle chainmail.
A voice in nonexistence says, Herbs, it is time to reach up. The mystic crane returns from wherever he goes, and all the other birds shreek praise.
The humiliated ones get dressed up
and put their heads out the windows again.
It is a public concert on the tomb of January. The willow shakes her head, and I have this to say to language, Leave me alone. But language keeps chasing me, arguing.
I do not want to talk anymore about lovers
with this landscape so bathed in green light.
The ones we thought were lost have come back. The work of resurrection is clear. There must be decaying, then re-creation. The sun and these plants are evidence enough, a dazzle of paradise within paradise.
Live here, where souls do what they do. One achieves union. Another plays the part of Pharaoh. Now be silent. Speak to souls with silence. Silence reveals more than language.
Adam A. Azim 