Loyalty

If you could un-invent something, what would it be?

The river does not doubt the sea
though mountains rise and bend the knee.
It whispers through the stone-carved rift,
“To what, and where, and why, I drift?”
But as it flows, the flowing proves
the secret law by which it moves.
This is not duty, iron-bound,
but finding ocean in the sound.

The moon is loyal to the night,
not as a servant, held by might,
but as a lover, pale and clear,
who finds its whole self in that sphere.
So loyalty is not a chain,
but sunshine in the scattered rain.
You are the branch—the tree’s own growing.
You are the stream—the sea’s own knowing.

As Rumi says:
“You are not a drop in the ocean.
You are the entire ocean in a drop.”
This is the knot that is not a knot.
The faithful heart does not adhere—
it disappears in what is dear.

The stars keep faith with darkest space,
not by remaining in one place,
but by their burning, vast and deep,
a vow the cosmos cannot keep
unless it’s broken into light.
The day is loyal to the night
by vanishing at evening’s call—
in leaving, it surrenders all.

As Rumi says:
“Don’t be a seeker of legs—
be a runner.”
Loyalty is the running, not the route.
The soul’s allegiance, absolute,
is to the wine, not to the cup,
to the rising, not the flying up.

So do not think you serve a throne
outside the marrow of your bone.
The wave is water, through and through—
its loyalty is being true
not to the shore, but to the tide,
the boundless self it cannot hide.
In every “you,” the “I” is found;
in every turning, the still ground.

As Rumi says:
“What is planted in each soul?
That will sprout.”
Loyalty is the sprout, the bloom, the root—
the recognition of the fruit
already swelling in the shoot.
Be not the lock, but be the key
that turns itself to set you free.

The sun is loyal to the sky
simply by being, by and by.
It asks no contract, makes no plea—
its shining is fidelity.
And so, at last, we understand:
the truest, most unshaken band
is not a bond of “me” and “thee,”
but all the sky, all one, all free.