Living the Dream

I heard the wind as it caught a petal
to its hungry mouth; a kiss,
pressed to eternity as it drank
the colors and holiness with that lipsmack.

I heard the wind as it surfed soft skin,
tossing aside the burden of her hair;
locks reached out to fend the assault,
no matter how dear the caress was.

It sighed as it licked the sandy ridge;
cold cream froth crosses left askew.
It hummed a lullaby on the mound
of hills and against the face of cliffs.

Angry, it thrashed the weeds,
like a sobbing child, crooning,
at the loss of something.  I knew
loss best when I heard the wind.

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All have come up out of water,
creeping, like fog, simply shadowing
brown of sand,  green of bush and
blues of sky, claiming each bit
as a part of our whole.

We spill our bodies and silver bones
on mountain, desert, plain, hill
and skeletons of forests,
filleted like Coho
left to dry and smoke over city fires.
Gutters run more red
as we fight the fish ladders
to escape your flooding.

You, who would own
the moon and stars,
even the craters of Mars.
Even the pine, bulrushes,
grasses, burning under noonday,
waiting for evenings cool.

Like rivers, like volcanoes,
like wind shivering foundations,
like rain pounding on blossoms
to drive the seed deeper, you come.
Like hard nuts, we hold strong,
waiting for something to crack us,
to move us, to safer ground.

If we go deep enough
Into the green, the brown,
the sod of it,
crawl in between cracks,
and hold in the boles
of a redwood, we will find a way
to come back when it is safe.

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her glossy hair was folded
into fish tail braids,
tight as a cap against skull
pale as the bones beneath

feeling seaweed on her breath,
caught between the fingers
that reached to touch skin
while tail frothed waves
of want that pulled like undertow

no Odysseus or Orpheus
could have meant more
than the fish that fed multitudes
netted under black and white skies

pinned to the pinnacle of bows,
steering would be made easier,
by such flying fish and gods
would slide down big dippers
to get to such as her

she simply waded
until the sea swallowed,
gulped at  he beauty of her legs,
her thighs, the cup of her belly,
and stunned, could take no more.

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Breezes are best known to the dead,
to the old and dying stalks
and dry brown leaves.  Wind makes them speak,
rattle seeds in the throat of pods
and rubs withered lost ones
against the edges of their sisters
in the spasms of sorrowful goodbyes.

Brisk winds twirls the dead into dust,
makes ashes of dear downed things
to float up the shafts of light, only to be pelted
back down to the fried furrows
and pasted on iced lids of lakes.

Wild winds chisel at cliff faces
until they wrinkle at the war of it
and take on new features forged from deaths
of ancients that are renewed.

It is, then, that rock is eternal,
for rock to dust becomes rock again
when heaven weeps at the worry of wind.
Eternity peeks back at us
from fossilized bones bent
into an eternal cast where air deposited it.

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Sift and sough, sister,
run through brown barrows,
fly through the fields,
draw on the gunmetal skies.
I inure your many moves.

Drum on trunks, shiver shingles,
make me take notice
of sudden changes in season.

Be rampant or wanton, be holy,
in your upending and inside-out
turning of face to the pelt.

Come as a Barber that whitens
beard and eyebrow.  Put on the regalia
of Squamish or Blue Northern.
Don the warm robes
of Chinook of my homeland,
eat this snow that has lost its welcome.

Circle and twirl, whisper
Soft against the cheek of the earth,
Cry like a dervish or scream
against eaves, but come.
I know my directions by you.

Take stale air we breathe,
push it through the filter of trees,
hard rub of sand and soil,
bring it to my skin
let me feel what you know
in your travels, cell deep.

Sift and sough, sister,
run through brown barrows,
fly through the fields,
draw on the gunmetal skies.
I inure your many moves.

Tags: Poems by Shewolf
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