Prayer Sticks on Bald Mountain *
This woman who walks through your dreams
Lives by the water of a thousand towers,
Though she has built no cities.
She own stone as a snake does skin;
Her long hair grows green
In the tossing of rivers over the land.
She dissolves into the sweet earth,
Dreaming the things that grow her.
Her fingers are the feathers
Birds color upon the opening wind:
Touch her hand
And lift up on your own breathing,
Singing the flight of clouds
In your weightless bones.
Her hair, green:
Her skin, the skein of stone,
Her fingers, the feathering of season
Spirits take wing upon.
Her bones, elemental dice
In the wheel of life:
What is left, What is always left:
What returns to us
After we make our choices
(After we make our stories.)
Her eyes, our water.
Her voice, as much incense as sound,
Calling you to yourself
In that most ancient of intoxications.
Her belly, the stomach of the universe
Through which all things must pass:
Her legs opening upon the desire of God
For every weed and wild thing.
“There is a house…”
Her heart, the geography of home:
Where every story begins.