The year of July and Monday's poem
A slip of the tongue; A beautiful new way to measure time.
The summer days lend themselves to that feeling the days will not end, the heat will go on, the month becoming heavy with the weight of a year.
Sunshine that barely fades before lighting the sky again in this Northern part of the world.
Everything alive and feeding, mating, birthing.
The iridescence of the dragonfly's wing.
The endless feel of deep summer.
Today's poem is by Rumi.
Not Christian or Jew or Muslim, not Hindu
Buddhist, sufi, or zen. Not any religion
or cultural system. I am not from the East
or the West, not out of the ocean or up
from the ground, not natural or ethereal, not
composed of elements at all. I do not exist,
am not an entity in this world or in the next,
did not descend from Adam and Eve or any
origin story. My place is placeless, a trace
of the traceless. Neither body or soul.
I belong to the beloved, have seen the two
worlds as one and that one call to and know,
first, last, outer, inner, only that
breath breathing human being.