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 single/ narcissus flower has been appointed Inspector// of Kingdoms. A feast is set. Listen: the/ wind is pouring wine! Love used to hide// inside images: no more! The orchard hangs/ out its lanterns. The dead come stumbling by/ in shrouds. Nothing can stay bound or be imprisoned. You say, “End this poem here,// and wait for what’s next.” I will. Poems are rough notations for the music we are.

Rumi

Winter is over and I am music. I hear new melodies and new lyrics. My heart remembers the songs. I laugh for the first time in ages. My muscles and breath remember the deep relief. I feel new rhythm and keep new time. I remember the beat. I let love leap from images and set a feast and pour out wine and hang out lanterns. The hope and power of spring is now.

We are all music. We are all poetry. Especially right now. Especially at this moment. Our songs and stories are unique gifts to the world. We must sing and share. They connect us to one another. They are perpetual spring in a lifetime of seasons. They are joy in our sorrow, and light in our darkness. They are fire for our passions, and water for thirst. They are poetry and prose. We are all music. Let us all be Inspectors of Kingdoms and play our music.