Rumi says we can bang on a musical instrument first thing in
the morning to fight
our emptiness
I like to blend a fruity elixir and smack my lips by the tiled counter while
a radio hosts regales me with the weather
I like to walk to the back porch and chatter to the hummingbird
who accuses me from a dead vine
I love to soak my hands in the warm dishwater as I scrub last night’s
pans
I love to check for cactus blossoms
On the way to the car
in the garden
You planted
In the final years
of your life
a love letter
from
afar
How’s that for a prayer, I say
How’s that for faith
