“I read a book of Rumi’s poems almost seven years ago”

“I read a book of Rumi’s
poems almost seven years ago”

I think of Rumi’s bird regularly,
and have written about it occasionally;
the last time I wrote about it,

I was fooled.

It wasn’t a bird at all.
What a fool.

There are no birds at all. There are no birds at all.
The sky is filled with birds. The sky is filled, full.
The sky is filled full of birds my love.

Let them.

This love changes the sky.

Black stones fill up my chest
and my foolish heart turns them to foolishness,
like a magic trick.

Birds fly out from my hands;

There is no magic,
There are no birds,
Love is the only thing in the sky.

I know of a bird.
I heard it singing a tribute,
before it swallowed me whole.

I hear singing.