DAILY
Wind moves the tall grasses, opening a slender swath at the spine of the hill.
I trespass her narrow path, feeling her breath in my spine.
Her inhale pauses, whooshing out in exhale.
Our attunement grows so perfect she is the breath of my beloved, as I am hers.
Every healing longed for moves between our inhale and exhale, conduits of life force.
Beckoned to the top of the hill, I pause with inner arms turned out,
head and palms stretched back to surrender offerings to the sky.
My breath/her breath, the logos, surrendering everything without,
holding all within.
This earth’s breath, so assumed we do not build her shrines, nor meadow-statues,
yet she is patron saint of givers & high-livers, friend & neighbor, mothers-fathers,
and every lover persuaded by her dance.
Would that I will conjure this moment for my death.
Call it to me as simply following the wind down from the high crest
into the shadowed meadow.
There, in a long windswept exhale, weight falls away,
stone is cut from stone, and the iron link unfastens.
After reading your poem, I sat in a field and closed my eyes… With each inhale I felt the Earth’s breath traveling down my spine gently swirling around each vertebrae…and with each exhale I sent my breath through Her valleys, Her mountains, Her trees…
This poem is so beautiful. I love it! Yet again, you paint pictures with your words.
Sometimes the words pick me so they can paint the picture they wish. As you know, those are the best paintings because one has little to do with it, other than step aside to let the colors come through.