Seems everywhere I turn, Rumi is being quoted. He's timeless, a libra, and one of my favorites. Tonight, a tribute to him.
A tribute to Rumi
I am the grape waiting to be wine,
red content to be red,
green happily plucked from the vine.
I am sour. I am sweet.
small, dry, wet, full of seeds,
intoxicating at best, abundant at worst.
I need serene.
I need romance.
I need a handful of dreams,
to be seen and
respected for my mind,
that swirl around the cup that's filled
with revelations that twirl
where colors collide and then
on the inside.
I want a description written about me
and my different moods and
offering up my information using
that pulls them in with words that linger and swim,
how my ingredients
additions and sweet combinations
for lunches and dinners,
and spontaneous late night desserts
but that last all night
until the moon is dizzy and ready for
I'd like an alter to rest
upon, my offering of love
never undone. Wrapped like a gift,
in never-ending paper made from sacrificial trees.
I want to drink of myself
and be pleased
with the taste,
ripe in all the right places.
I want to follow leaves and winter coal.
I want to heat the emptiness in a stove
of fire and light.
I want to watch the bread rise inside
and welcome the knife that cuts its flesh
for serving, on a platter covered in herbs and vegetable soup,
soft and filling,
a perfect fit for fish
or apples, or