Do I even recognize the flow anymore?

But when I am going through manzanita hell and I see Mt. Shasta peaking at me at the next lava ridge, my heart fucking sings!

Weary, weary, weary. I see the moonlit water on Medicine Lake and I am smiling inside. And still you baby, you are in pine to pine to pine, in the clear azure blue summit of my days and the bitter, bitter promise of autumn. Every dragonfly and golden poof ball seed I blow out into plantations in the shadow of that volcano, etched in sunlight. The young ones seem to understand: the impossibility of planning, the oneness of love, the mastery of surfing.

I dreamed about Miss Emily this morning, as if everything is coming together as everything unravels. Letting go of my heart aches. You, especially, both of you, all of you, because you were already there. I arrive and find myself alone in sunshine surrounded by pines. My thoughts only echo.

What’s the fun of fellowship or creation without accouterments?

The language he uses, as though he were trying to un-tease the same secrets as me. I think of eye twinkles all week. You have been twinkling in my eye for a long time now. Like aspen leaves on a mountain stream all my desires are rushed away in a golden torment, pulling up my collar, tying down my hood, I turn from embracing.

But I want to break through to be the joy of blowing those golden poof ball seeds and cresting to see Mt. Shasta. I want to be that joy for everyone. Against the grain I climb, whipped by wicked winds. How much easier your hand would make the journey! And she remains the lighthouse beacon, the fire among the dreamers. Sister, stay strong. They need your light. I need you to bring forth home again. I’ll lose my way without you. Keep shining! Home? I still strive for it. It is in me and it is me.

The kachinas loom, impressive, awesome, almost frightening in a world where there are no consequences left to clarify, my longing half consumes me. I am empty in the void and safe in the mountains.


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