We had to soak a bowl of wheat
and swaddle them in a wet cloth for a week
and spread those sprouted grains of wheat in a
beautifully shaped dish and let them grow to a weed.
Then we would make little colored figurines
to represent us, so they could sit atop grass wheat.
Then mother will go to “Charbagh” bazaar and buy
beautiful little red fish to represent life.
On the table we had hyacinth to freshen the room
then came time to color eggs in those little pots.
My mother would never forget to put open-paged Hafiz
on her chosen ghazal, while reciting the lines.
Mother told us never sleep with old clothes
the night of Norooz
We were seven little dwarfs then.
At the 13th day of Norooz
we had to throw those planted grains
In any river we could see,
to have those old, sad roots taken away from us.
Mar 202013
March 20, 2013
Poetry
