The Music We Are

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.