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.
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