We are wisdom and healing, roasted meat and the star Canopus. We’re
ground and spilled wine soaking in. When illness comes, we cure
it. For sadness we prescribe a friend. For death, a friend. Run
to meet us on the road. We stay modest and we bless. We look like
this, but this is a tree, and we are morning wind in the leaves that
makes the branches move. Silence turning now into this, now that.
I found out today my cousin died of lung cancer, after 9 months of fighting it with various treatments. Rumi has such a perspective on things, on life, on death. I think the human warmth of friends is the greatest comfort, and silence. And morning sun on the lake.