A poet
tells me
there are chinar trees
on the landscapes
of Kashmir
just like
the tall old maple
out my door.
tinkles
through my mind
enticingly
as if
I had never
fully
grasped
this truth
before.
I gaze
upon
my newly
significant
tree,
as if
I could
somehow
look outside
and see
those ancient temples
in another land
shining
in our shared
celestial canopy,
reflected
in its skyscape
back to me.
In the valleys
of Kashmir
a poet walks,
eyes bedazzled
and wondering
in the glow
of the place
he calls
a Paradise
on earth.
The pictures show
a landscape
that I know:
a winding river,
a lake,
hills
soft and rounded
in the setting sun,
willow trees,
tall poplars
one by one -
that mirrored valley
ten thousand miles
away
looking
just like
this valley
encircling me
today.
Kashmir,
"where nature
sits
in the lap
of the gods,"
its pathways
where
a gentle poet
trods,
where rivers wind
through valleys
sweet and mild,
and a lake lies
ringed by
round low hills
exactly
like those
around
my lakeside
orchard valley
as a child.
Two valleys
where apple trees
will bloom
again;
in this mirrored
world,
somewhere
it's always
spring -
their buds
will be
peacefully
unfurled,
and poets' hearts
will lift
again
and sing
at the
unexpected
beauty
of
this
most
amazing
dual
offering.
