Again, the sharp new moon blade.
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
is now ridged in the breeze
like David’s chainmail.
A voice says to the herbs, Raise 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.
Resurrection is decay, then re-creation.
How the sun is with plants is evidence enough.
New York Hall of Science