Grave Moss & Stars

perhaps a thing for a spiritual nomad

i, protected by my coat
of a thousand sun-hot knives
that sing in thin, high voices,
will walk through this world
and leave only a trail
of shed hairs
and wild stories.

all that comes against me
with intent to harm
shall be reduced to naught
but red ribbons.

all that comes to me
in peace and in joy
shall be lifted up
and praised, loved, celebrated.

my footprints bear no coherency,
no more than my face
or my heart,
and i will pass away like the wind,
into the wind,
and the trees will whisper rumors
of where i have gone
while i sleep in their roots.