"The Essential Rumi, borrowed from the library"

Before I read the mystic's words,
the flowers of your perfume,
curled between pages you held long and close,
dreamed our release into a tangled garden
of cornflowers, violet and green.

And we, red and gold, hair loosened by poetry,
flew wings of kept birds out of the house
into the glory of that conjured place,
praying for tree houses and swings
with no words, just whooping, sublime and serene.