Chroma

after Rumi

If the fruit’s russet-red in the tree

If the birds make tedium into song

If the mob of crows is an ode

If the longed-for reveals itself as it does

If the ephemeral flowers out of sorrow

If tomorrow points its chisel at the world

If all that is ours is beloved, today.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← Landscape, with Threads of ConversationFirst One, Then the Other →

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