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.