wind that mixes in your fire

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'm 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 can't

see your own beauty. I am the wind
that mixes in your fire, who stirs and

brightens, then makes you gutter out."

Rumi