A collaborative poem with the Oracle.
Only ask and all the air will wake with joy
to the slow rhythm of the morning.
Taste the salt blue of the sky,
the smoky softness of a dewy meadow,
the rough velvet of secret trees, emerging from the mist,
the liquid brilliance of the moon.
The breeze is haunted by the voices of the past,
the whisper of babies and old women
~dwindled to a memory~
the raging of the storm,
this breeze is full and rich,
and entwined with the thistledown of dying breath
the vibrant pulse of night, birthing stars,
the tangle tendrils of day-thrusting shoots,
life that swells and grows and beats;
taste its hot tang with lips that speak words of hope,
and treasure its trembling on the brink of being.