the first whirling saint of poetry
spinning like a galaxy
weaving constellations of words
like blazing stars,
numinous moons,
planets with gardens blossoming
and oceans floating in space.

the first whirling saint of poetry
traversing the geography
of divine desire with longing
stronger than the undertow of history.

This presence is
mysterious, like the silhouette of music,
the circumference of a dream.

When Rumi met Shams
the clouds couldn’t keep quiet
they cried at the question
that knocked Rumi down
they floated more slowly,
hoping to hear whispers
from their mystical conversations.

sending words like flaming arrows
to penetrate hearts
cold as that December night
when Shams was called
to the back door
never to be seen again.

bathed in sacred graces
bathed in sacred graces
like the wind that fills the flute
with notes of longing.

I saw Rumi
spinning verses
in the early morning hours,
one arm wrapped around the pillar,
his free hand tracing
outlines of angels in the air
songs with the power
to intoxicate prophets
longing for the Beloved
whose absence fills the world
invisible odes
built of breath
like God could kiss your lips
and transmit words that ride on waves
of how it feels when you’re together.

By Drew Dellinger
in Love Letter to the Milky way

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