Prayer Sticks on Bald Mountain

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.

Published in the Oregonian

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