Sometimes I send my spirit to the hills
And then down to the rippling creek
Now raging from the permeating spring rains.
I have always done this,
Perhaps to let my spirit rest within some other element
That is not myself.
I just exhale her away into the rock, the ridges, the river,
As easy as a breath into the winds of early summer.
And there she lies down, gently,
And becomes these other things;
Things that are not fear, or self-doubt, or a
Racing heart at night wondering if I am,
Perhaps, doing it all wrong.
No, she is now like the fawn that knows only
The scent of fresh grass and the ever-rising prairie sun.
She is like the fluttering of the aspen leaves on the
Highest edges of the cliffs,
Loose and wild,
Careless in the wind, since when they fall, they decompose,
Simply to begin again.
There is a space between my ribs through which she leaves
And the tears on my cheeks then wait to cease as she settles within
The rock, the ridges, the river,
And when I am beat down, hurt, scared,
I look up to the hills and tell myself,
Send your spirit
There.
Written a few months ago, but true, always.
