Raising martyred plants from their shrouds…

SPRING IS CHRIST

by Rumi

Everyone has eaten and fallen asleep.  The house is empty.
We walk out to the garden to let the apple meet the peach,
to carry messages between rose and jasmine.

Spring is Christ,
raising martyred plants from their shrouds.
Their mouths open in gratitude, wanting to be kissed.
The glow of the rose and the tulip means a lamp
is inside.  A leaf trembles.  I tremble
in the wind-beauty like silk from Turkestan.
The censer fans into flame.

The wind is the Holy Spirit.
The trees are Mary.
Watch how husband and wife play subtle games with their hands.
Cloudy pearls from Aden are thrown across the lovers,
as is the marriage custom.

The scent of Joseph’s shirt comes to Jacob.
A red carnelian of Yemeni laughter is heard
by Muhammad in Mecca.

We talk about this and that.  There’s no rest
except on these branching moments.

Photo: Spring by Myostis at deviantART.

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