supplication among the desert flowers, mother of the waters opens her long-closed mouth — it cannot contain what must flow she has already sung her immortal song; i am just there to catch it in the smoke that rises from my offering abalone, sweetgrass: you show me your sacred fire; who purports to claim ownership of the wind? not i only those who have suffered can release its tears into the sky and that i do, bequeathed by holy ones who have no voice, known only by their mark upon this land, i cry out: “release me!” and the milky-white arm of the mother brushes my forehead and draws blood, for i know she will be leaving us: she asks us to stand upon stones forged of our own making; she knows we must be free, and she trusts us with her arc, stretched between two poles: a magic bow arrows shall be loosed, and they will meet their mark, for that whose origin is in love ends in love and the devil can be flayed only by rising at dawn, sweetgrass mother
watercolor on paper, 12"x16"
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