The silk trees dream of home


Night lingers beneath the silk trees’ curving boughs,
Velvet soft their star-spangled canopy,
Bejewelled as a sultry bridal gown,
And cool as the fountains of Samarkand.
When the golden sun lights up the eastern sky,
Dewdrops hanging from rose-silky petal spikes
Reflect the hues of hanging garden blooms
And glitter with the songbirds’ liquid notes
That pour in sorrow from a thousand captive throats,
Filled with all the grief of broken wings.
Growing far from home with roots in distant lands,
The silk trees’ feather leaf fans fed by foreign streams,
Across the years and burning desert sands,
The breeze sighs with their languid cloistered dreams.

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.