Hands imitate hands
My hands imitate my mother’s
Hers imitate her mother’s
and hers before hers
imitating through the years
back to King Jamshid.
Imitating,
I lay a feast for Norooz
a haftseen fifteen thousand years in the making,
*
And I bid Spring welcome.
I lay a feast of hafteen
Worthy of a king
King Jamshid himself!
Worthy of a dervish.
In the eyes of Norooz,
they are one and the same thing
*
Norooz will not come until
The blossoms are in bloom
Until I have swept my room
Until my sabzeh is grown
And the goldfish swim in their bowl
*
Norooz will come with the smell of lilac
With the sounds of “Eidet Mobarak!” and “Eidet Mobarak!”
With the taste of rice cookies,
With the promise of renewal, rebirth, and
new stories.
*
Norooz comes with words
from family and friends,
Some near, some far
Most dear, some far.
*
Norooz comes at the precise second
of balance:
light and dark
Frost and bloom.
Sometimes Norooz comes with the sun,
Sometimes with the moon.
For fifteen thousand years, Norooz
Has never come too late, or too soon.
*
No tyrant’s sword
No tyrant’s word
Has ever stopped Norooz,
Nor the hands that lay the feast
And bid Spring welcome.
*
And today I lay my haftseen,
Imitating,
And I say, “Welcome, Norooz! Welcome!”
