Persian silk trees in the rain


In the rain the silk trees drip
Soft and cool about the seated men
Murmuring oriental stories
They had not thought to hear again.
Rain falls to the cadence of their memories
On pale pink flowers, balls of bird-like plumes
That cluster glittering with their fragile hues
Persian paintings caught among their blooms
One man lifts his face to the lacy canopy
And catches raindrops in his outstretched hand
Reflecting hanging gardens of another time
And the long dusty road from Samarkand.