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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.

Only Breath

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.


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