The sun leaps
into responsibility,
freshly pressed and dripping
another delectable day
into me.
Though sleep knows,
and has always knownâ
I am still not ready.
Under a spell
of honeyed flowers,
I have dissolved
into the dew of night,
limbs disguised
under a river of silk,
stitched together
with the same spider
that spun the night
I spun myself in.
I know better than
to stay in this cocoon,
untwined enough
to slip one foot
into the hyacinth breeze
and unthread a hundred dreams
from heavy eyes.
What keeps me occupied is
to finish the day
that has yet to begin,
to bat the unease
out of creased pillows
and shake the fears too,
so all dust surrenders
to the peace
between everything.
I let my shadows dance
on porcelain walls
and into
the infinite window,
where the oldest light
that silently lights
the distant meadow fields,
lights the cracks of this room
and waitsâ
and continues to wait
for me.
âThe breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you. Donât go back to sleep. You must ask for what you really want. Donât go back to sleep. People are going back and forth across the doorsill where the two worlds touch. The door is round and open. Donât go back to sleep.â
âA Great Wagonâ by Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks
