You are a walk in old growth,
The softest moss enjoyed by many stepping creatures.
As I grow weary I ease myself into your tall grass,
In the place where the wind takes it’s rest.

You speak to me in dream and river tongue
Chanting swallow’s songs and perfect weathered stone
I close my eyes and we exchange silk and furs
I worship the earth spirits that live inside you

As days pass, laughter turns to sugarcane
Tacit moon makes adobe pueblos
Here—my chest never touches the ground

I take shelter in your familiar terracotta
Like water excited in the kettle
Here—the bird of my thoughts sings