I crave the taste
of icy air,
of snowcapped mountains,
and rugged rock
beneath my feet.

To have wildflowers
sprout
from my fingertips,
my tongue
rich
in the language
of flowing rivers,

So that my eyes
will become
parts of constellations
with lashes
of evergreen needles,

My skin of clay,
heart of earth,
and of fire,
with thoughts
made up of
stardust
so they can touch
the moon.