March

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.

– Rumi