Wyoming

wild lands large enough
for me to empty my loneliness
pouring it into the grasses
hearing them sing and sigh

which was the first breath and why –
was it drawn by some tree, as if a secret extraction
pulled taut by the world,
rippling leaves and water,
setting motion into motion

up here in the mountains,
the sloe-eyed violets turn their gaze to the sun
and the cedar needles underfoot
release their earthen wonder
that slow churning rot,
a time-release fester and glory

my bare arms and the strands of my hair
perfumed for hours after
with the scent of sun-warmed sage,
the intoxicating suckle of honey
running through me like fever

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