wise-woman visions

I can imagine

myself as a midwife or a medicine woman—

waking early

wandering

the wooddesertmountain

with bad-ass boots & a patchy coat, pockets filled with rosemary and crystals

driving an old truck that smells of rolled cigarettes and gasoline

drinking hot tea out of a mason jar.

i see all of this & I wonder where this image will land me.

Portland in the fall?

Nevada in the Winter?

Colorado? Montana?

But I need the trees.

My power is in the mountains.

Or maybe it is in the moon—and her face isn’t bound to the side of the mountain

i need the howl of coyotes, the smell of pine, the sound of running water over rocks, cold air, wind.

i crave this to the center of my

bones.

i want to dance with fire women, sing air songs, pray to the earth, bathe in the water, and

speak with the

spirit mother & the red father that binds all of these together in a chaotic harmony i will never understand.

i need to paint my body with the stain of poke berry and

run, foot against stone, against decaying leaves.

there is a savage within me

that needs to run free

that needs to bark at the moon and breathe clean air.

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