Thursday, September 29, 2005

Salvo From Treetops

by Zinta Aistars

"Egles," watercolor, by Viestarts Aistars

To look out across the jag and clean cut of mountains,
to be wrapped in the damp cool of vapors and mists,
to be spiked through with treetops, impaled on sky,
heart swinging high and loose against clouds:
Earth blood surges through human veins.
We are the mud and dust of long ago myths,
legends unfolding, carrying
and being carried, bred and breeding,
birthed and birthing the infinite cycles
of a universe without end or beginning,
a story told from the middle and spiraling outward
for time without measure—
waking as She awakens,
sighing when She sighs,
rejoicing when She rejoices,
bleeding Her blood,
dying as She dies,
a silence imploding upon itself,
the mountain inside crumbling to sand,
to dust, to nothing, to less than
nothing, that very moment
when our prayer is said without one palm to soil,
one palm to sky.

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