Easter Not

Spring rain is here again just as the moon doth wax and wane
I hear the santour and the daf and for a moment give in
to the dance of the universe, turning is the earth
as does the water flowing down the drain
in circles; I want to churn around
like a darvish, you won’t find
me in the mosque or
church or temple
but rather
look to
the wind
the clouds
the rain and black
earth where all sleeping
things begin to return from
the unknown to grace us with their
gifts again and they care not what names
we have assigned them, it makes no difference
to the Tuberose, the pink jasmine or the purple crocus
what we call them and we are not the center of existence

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