For Dorathy
A lady is missing.
She does not answer her voice mail,
distant friends look for signs
indications of further steps.
It can be presumed, assumed
that the end of her brilliant earth existence
faltered somewhere between night and day
where she wrote her poems.
Such poems!
She had come through,
she lived in the heart of Rumi.
Perhaps even now a Sufi wedding
between her and her unnamable Beloved
radiates across ten thousand heavens.
Let the sweet scent of ten thousand lovers
be her virginal wedding shift.
Let her be robed with light.
Long may her love poems
forever feed the hungry.
Live on forever Dorothy.
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