Rumi arrived in rain,

thunderous, drenched,

roofs rattling

like the collected blare of monarchy

In the rain came Rumi,

under the packed bird refuges of foliages;

in a traveling curtain of rain he came,

with the cat leaps of centuries

through the battered grass,

upstream the rills of the tree-lined farm lane,

far feet in sandy 13th century sandals,

unto a soaked 1st August 2023,

rumbled, weary wet,

the suddenness of a refreshing gust

out of the driving drones

through the bedroom balcony door ajar,

up the bodies of humans

rising out of the Great Ship of Dreams

with senses clearing

through the joint tuttis

of the filtering string ensembles of thundering rain

through the sparse populations of rural villages;

mighty Sami drums rumbling out of the mountains

Rumi came in rain,

from the mailbox down by the road,

packed with the early morning delivery

of Coleman Barks' interpretations

of The Big Red Book and Bridge to the Soul

Rumi came in rain

'tween trees occupied by the ruffled-up

and expectant,

the lookouts of the house optically distorted

towards the greenery;

the garden with the newly constructed gazebo dancing,

funhousy:

the rainwater barrels filled;

the fountains out of their excess water vents gushing

Rumi came in rain,

announced by dark anvils

on Northbothnian coniferous horizons;

the way lit by lightning

up to the house on the hill of till,

and my waking Ship of Dreams

Rumi came in rain

The Day beats the drum, drooling,

the poems shine!