Rumi’s field – beyond ideas
of wrong-doing and right-doing –
is not so far away.
I’m running my hand
along the top of its fence. It was never
a great distance to traverse
but a coming to a halt,
turning the handle
and swinging wide the gate.
No one to meet me there but myself,
unencumbered of my knothole view,
my prejudices and opinions.
Ah, to lie down burden-free
in that long grass with the wildflower scent
in the sun-warmed field, upheld
and surrendered like a body on the ocean face
letting the current move me where it will.
It’s so near, just over the fence,
and I won’t leave until I’m taken away
or find a way through its summoning gate.
O child of God, not far away nor far in the future.
Seek advice from your constant Companion.