Smudging
the solemn practice
of standing in
the smoke of
burning sage
to cleanse the
impurities of
the soul
to invite them
to take their
leave
loosen their
grip on your
breath
let go
with a grace
for the
good work
they did
yesterday
keeping
you safe
and the ghosts
and the
unforgettable
tortured faces
and the thin
nameless birds
with their narrow
swirling wings
and sharp beaks
follow in the
wisps and
blue clouds
floating with
the strong
west
wind
to the
east
where the
pink dawn
begins
and the
sun rises