Scarlet, heavy, soggy
I dry it on my window sill.
Brick-coloured powder I fill into
A test glass, putting a stopper in.
Turn the tube tentatively:
Landslide on the inside,
Crags on the landscape’s surface,
Coastlines crashing into the sea.
Give it a shake:
A sandstorm in the desert,
Hot winds make the clouds
Blush, obscuring my tracks.
With water I shape it,
With fire I burn it,
A breeze just blows the dust away.
© jsmorgane (Jan 10)
From the fire without end
The white limestone rocks travel
Over Grandmother Unci’s path
Into Our Mother’s womb.
Dark, warm, damp,
With the smell of cedar,
Sage crunching underfoot.
In the centre within
Glowing stones pile up high.
Tunka stirs in his sleep
When cool water pours
Onto his shoulders, and, hissing,
Grandfather’s fiery white breath
Kisses our skin.
© jsmorgane (Jan 10)
Taste the stone
You are holding
In your hand.
It smells of rains,
Like the waterfall
Gushing down your throat.
It smells of winter wind,
When you throw it
High into the crystal sky.
It smells of blood
Which its sharp edges
Cut into your tender skin.
It tastes of salt
Like the balms
Cradling it.
© jsmorgane (Jan10)
