Endless Heart of Spring

Today is a day of birch bark peeling back, opening, making a place for sunlight to land;

A day for the dance of memory -- for Ruminating
          while settling back
                        into the warm, hard sycamore.

This is a place for gazing at frosted mountain tops
           on the first Monday of Spring.

This is the right place for hearing
           the whirring of birds taking flight...

This day is a book of hours -- with the feel of other sacred moments multiplied --
Time melts into itself yet doesn't disappear.

Here is when all seasons
            and worlds
                          and human loves
                                       (whether steady, wild, or winged)
                                                          dissolve...
                                                                         into the endless encircling heart...

O God...make of me...
                        Your breath...
                                               Your flute...


(Written during a time of months with my Mother Ruby Shelman's -- upon the beautiful event of receiving
a gift of poetry which has been most helpful throughout this journey.)

***********
My Mother is a musician and the following also feels just right to add the RUMI poem to mine:

The Music We Are


Did you hear that winter’s over? The basil

and the carnations cannot control their

laughter. The nightingale, back from his

wandering, has been made singing master

over the birds. The trees reach out their

congratulations. The soul goes dancing

through the king’s doorway. Anemones blush

because they have seen the rose naked.

Spring, the only fair judge, walks in the

courtroom, and several December thieves steal

away, Last year’s miracles will soon be

forgotten. New creatures whirl in from non-

existence, galaxies scattered around their

feet. Have you met them? Do you hear the

bud of Jesus crooning in the cradle? ...

A feast is set...
Love used to hide

inside images: no more! The orchard hangs

out its lanterns....

Nothing can stay bound or be

imprisoned....

Even poems are rough notations

for the music we are.