There is much to be said of a garden
bathed in the gray late evening light, with its birds
flitting among the scents of cardamom
and cloves, and its cypress sighing out words
to match the cooing and moan of the few doves
snapping their feathers in the leaves; and of
the foliage and the vetching wind which moves
soundless nature to mouth the language of love
there is much to be said.
                 Yet what is there
and all that seems to speak misrepresents
the meaning: all that is silent and nowhere,
as the rain that is coming, or the absence
of what I miss: two sitters in the lane
beneath the trellises, waiting for that rain.