I’m dry.

I had to go mine older journals than I’ve been mining to get this piece, snippet, done? poem.  I think I just want an excuse to post a picture of prayer flags from Kathmandu, Nepal, that Son took on his current journies a few days ago.

Prayer

wild blows the wind –
the river a mountain range of white caps.
Last night the round moon played hide and seek
with clouds veiled by sideways snow, my breath
almost frozen in the air as I whispered to whomever –
ignoring strands of hair in my mouth, flakes blurring
my vision – or perhaps frozen tears – that the prayer flags
have fallen and I
don’t know if that means the answer is yes or no.