Prayer flags

When the wind comes in like this

cool like this

from far off

trailing clouds, tasting of sex

I want to sit overlooking

raingreen foothills folded

sage in the sunshafts

purpled by distance
amongst the roots

of that ancient, near-dead juniper

perched on the edge of the burnfield,

a grey tide riling in the sky.

I want to be here when the wind whips the mountain, keening,

feeling the fire at my feet

that once took a thousand dry acres and stopped short

at the base of this tree.

I want to be here

when the wind makes good on rain

and all is redeemed, even politics,

drunk on the ocean set sail in the air.

I’d like to unfurl a thousand delicate

green tendrils like prayer flags

or paper cranes

let loose a coyote call

bare my breast and

allow everything

to consume me.