Smoke from somewhere far North,
that I just want to breathe in deep.
Some slow and supple resonance
creeps up quiet through my old knees
and impells outward a shout to the sky,
like "I just survived three days outside,
my legs are sandy, jacket covered in pine, and
I'm no longer afraid to die:
I see with eyes outside time, my grandson,
making his own path yet,
in just the way I wanted,
following closely in tune to mine."
So I pray he thinks.
Wind slides up and slaps a sunburn—
the rough lick of my cat.
I catch myself beseeching the respirant waves
to crash up on me
to help me forget
every bit of past that informs my ample fears:
let them melt like sandsketches,
let it drain like the creek at low tide,
let my shaded mind, my sunburnt heart no longer chide,
let my ness become strong like
coastal wind, and just as
molding to what it touches, and
just as able to lift your kite,
but just as gentle and soothing,
welcome for its calm respite.
Let my blood not beat too fast,
nor my limbs move too slow.
Let the spirits of my ancestors
guide me where I hope to go.
Let their kindness burn in me,
and thus their pains be healed.
Let trepidations be all found false,
in the face of movement real.
Let mountains guide the weather,
and rivers cut through dry,
and wind soothe any heat,
and progress gently fly.