Outside all turns to mystery,
the evening sky, the theater of all things divine.
There above me free birds and unborn children hover.
The mild breeze recites the last stanza of a forgotten poem.
The garden turned into a jungle overnight
where newborn leaves in the lightest green
humbles even the hard.
Though I know yet another winter will come
in this blessed art of the natural.
On rooftops birds communicate
as on profound mountains
proclaiming great wisdom
hidden from us.
A rosebud. Royalty yet unsprung
dwell in the bed to the right from me
while the lilacs hang lazily in peaceful salute
awaiting the children to sleep.