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.
by Rumi
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4 Comments
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The beauty of spring…
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Polly,
Such a great poem by Rumi and so well illustrated by your lovely daffodil photographs. Thank you! -
Thank you for introducing me to Rumi, I have never met him before! He seems to speak my language. I think we may become good friends, God willing.
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Author
Type in Rumi in the search bar on this blog and you’ll find more!
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