a wild rose at the field's edge

a wild rose at the field's edge

This is how you change
when you go to the orchard
where the heart opens:

you become
fragrance and the light
that burning oil gives off,

long strands of grieving hair, lion
and at the same time, gazelle.

You’re walking alone without feet,
as riverwater does.

The taste of a wine that is bitter and sweet,
seen and unseen, neither wet nor dry,
like Jesus reaching to touch.

A new road appears without desirous imagining,
inside God’s breath,

empty, where you quit saying
the name and there’s no distance,
no calling dove-coo.

A window, a wild rose at the field’s edge,
you’ll be me,
but don’t feel proud or happy.

Bend like the limb of a peach tree.
Tend those who need help.
Disappear three days with the moon.

Don’t pray to be healed, or look for evidence
of “some other world.”
You are the soul
and medicine for what wounds the soul.

~From “The Illuminated Rumi” translated by Coleman Barks

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