I've gone away to that open place
where verdant hills roll on like waves,
and strong-branched bistre trees march across:
a pilgrimage of Christ-like giants,
frozen in time to guide me.

I hear the thunder of my spirit as
mustangs claim the open spaces, and
feel my own voice leave me as the hawks
above me call out.

I am set free to fly with them, to
pound the earth and swallow the wind.
I have forsaken my limits and dissipated
like a mist into the sky.

Mother, I have become the world.


There's a loving tug in the line and
I'm coming home to my feet and
my spine and the muscles that keep me alive;
to the handicaps and the blessed gifts which
balance into the name my parents gave me;
to my healer's heart and my warrior spirit,
and the constant push-and-pull they bring.

But nothing is forgotten, and nothing is lost,
for I have secretly tucked the trees in my hair,
the sky I've hidden in my mouth
and the hills are sinking undetected beneath the skin at my toes.
Horses thunder into my heart, keeping a constant cantor,
and the hawk settles on my back,
lending me his now-invisible wings.

Brother, the world is within me.