If you go to where the mountains
speak in the purple hued
whisper of
our foremothers,
where you can
mark the time in long
drawn out sips of tea.
Cup the air
in the palm of your hands,
Put it to your lips
And taste the dust in it.
Then say this,
to the dry winds,
so that they may tell it
to the mountains
who,
stuck where they are,
will understand:
She wishes she were here,
wrapped in the folds of
your cool,
craggy,
embrace.
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