May

May this noon rest lightly like a plume from an egret’s crest
on your happiness, ease inside the book you clutch close
to the feeblest murmurs. We witness birds and reckon
their flying for freedom; I write verses to weave your
voice into mine and let it off in the simmering noon –

listen, and it is there, right under the tiny claws
of sunbirds, stuck like pollen onto bumble bees –
far more in their possession now than in ours. We can
only sense it, say, as butterflies paying a gracious tribute
to the roses with photonic crystal wings, lost in nectar –

their gestures lost on the blind petals are replenished
in sanguine chambers of our hearts – unwitting hosts
to such magnificent ‘uselessness’ – the cardinals of grace,
the revelers of meanings, however small or hushed like
a meditative spread of wings or the dragonfly renewal.

We draw the summer air with wild purple blooms,
sprinkle a little water on the flowers, and the earth
mingles with the clove breath of carnations – soon
the faint flush of sundown will resonate with our calm
vision, claim it for itself and leave us wondering.


Taimur Khan

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