On Rumi’s death date
my body was visited by a global plague
that shook me into breathlessness
until words let go of my hands
and made meaning for themselves
A dream of winds stirred me awake
and I found myself prostrated over a poem
as three gusts of wind circled the cottage
I lay restless in
When I awoke, only stillness
and a moon that danced over an outburst of clouds
washed the cottage in lunar baptismal
Inside, I was busy becoming lost
to the trickster
of our time
who slowly took my breath away
so my words could become clearer
