Dirt

A few days ago I sat in my garden courtyard, looked at the sliding glass windows, and saw my father's eyes looking back at me.  It's like origami, the pressures of the past year released from my bones so that supple, multiplicities of beneficence have folded themselves up into a tiny thread, aveoli upon aveoli, at the core of being.  That day I walked to the store, radiant in a sundress, and planted sunflower and nasturtiums from seed, lettuces, strawberries, and little white violas from starts.  Mathias placed a huge number of crystals in and around the lettuces, and aurora held each tiny leaf of the flowering seedlings, both fresh.

Did you hear that winter’s over? The basil
and the carnations cannot control their

laughter. The nightingale, back from his
wandering, has been made singing master

over the birds. The trees reach out their
congratulations. The soul goes dancing

through the king’s doorway. Anemones blush
because they have seen the rose naked.

Spring, the only fair judge, walks in the
courtroom, and several December thieves steal

away, Last year’s miracles will soon be
forgotten. New creatures whirl in from non-

existence, galaxies scattered around their
feet. Have you met them? Do you hear the

bud of Jesus crooning in the cradle? A single
narcissus flower has been appointed Inspector

of Kingdoms. A feast is set. Listen: the
wind is pouring wine! Love used to hide

inside images: no more! The orchard hangs
out its lanterns. The dead come stumbling by

in shrouds. Nothing can stay bound or be
imprisoned. You say, “End this poem here,

and wait for what’s next.” I will. Poems
are rough notations for the music we are.

~Mevlana Rumi~

Today I lay in the dirt among my rosebushes, soaking up warmth, gently chanting the names of saints.  I like dirt.  I like the grit and the realism and the insects, these too are part of beneficence.  The daffodils are dying now, their yellow scent upon the wind paving the way for other flourishes...open and soft.

Hu