“Wind That Mixes With Your Fire” (Rumi)

I see myself as a thorn. I move near the rose. As vineyard, I remember the vintner’s skill.

As a cup of poison, I long to be the antidote. I am a glass of wine with dark sediment. I pour it all in the river.

I am sick. I reach for Jesus’ hand. Immature, I look for one who knows.

Out of the ground a poem grows eye medicine. Now love says to me, Good. But you cannot see your own beauty.

I am the wind that mixes with your fire, that stirs and brightens, then makes you gutter out.