Today, I ferociously scrub through
the layers of dirt and dust and hair and crumbs
that have gathered as dust and crumbs do.
“You know,” says Rumi,” walking
into the closet, and I jump up like
a startled chicken.
“You know,” he says, “you can make
perfume out of dust in the house of love.”
“But Rumi,” I say, “I am emptying
things—making space.”
Rumi laughs. “No need to scrub
everywhere you go,” he says.
I think he must be wrong, but I nod
anyway, and he motions me to the door.
“Leave the broom and the rag,
and walk into the world, the world
full of dust and dirt and crumbs,” he says.
“But Rumi,” I say, “the drawers
in the kitchen are still full of spilled
salt and flour and the floor
doesn’t shine as I like it to.”
And Rumi gives me a gentle shove
into the day and tells me,
“There is no difference between
leaf and crumb, now go out
and stop this scrubbing and dance.”
I am still thinking that it would
be nice to vacuum under the rugs.
“Go on now,” he says, “Oh,
and Rosemerry, remember to sing.
Everything mirrors everything.”
*With some of Rumi’s quotes inspired by “Is This a Place Where Stories Are Acted Out?” translated by Coleman Barks