Out past the empty barn,
twin Percherons, tall as steeples,
canter across their meadow
to greet my small son and me.
The evidence of wind is in the scarves
Of people waiting for the bus
There are threads of old sound heard over and over
phrases of Shakespeare or Mozart the slender
wands of the auroras playing out from them
let us gather our objects of grief like fierce weapons
against the kingdom of the ruling class
It’s not weather or seasons I’m really thinking about,
merely the time of year, in a year of big changes,
when the best, most awaited change is about to happen
Once with my father
I sat in its shade.
We were coming from Isfahan
And wanted to go to Ferdows
From the desert.
There’s only past throwing
its shadow on the lane that sends you back
toward what is gone. Your eyes will soon adjust.
it is sacred, the way
soil clinging to the seed
of a new shoot
pushing out of the earth