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.