Oh, to be wind, mist, wisdom, power,
at a blink, on a wish, in a twinkling, for a whim.
To be rescued from indecision
because molecules move
with the bend of a pinkie,
the beat of a lash,
the flash of a smile.
To want, to pray, to whine
from the ground into the air
for a shower of divine sparklings
to make me heartstartingly irresistible
to world leaders who require miraculous transformation.
To command that all weapons melt into a single spear
to be shot out into infinity,,
to be caught and twisted and stuck artfully through the earlobe of the God who lives on the Star-Womb at the Southwest End of the Universe.

Oh, to stride over state lines, through nations,
unkillable, inconceivable, miles high,
a see-through gown of stars and sunlight,
in blinding golden sandals,
stopping at last, to pick up all the blind bad boys who play with wars,
and pour them into a deep, soft, dark bag.

And when it is full of selfish, stupid, nasty little humans,
I hold the top closed,
and shake it and shake it and shake it and shake it
and open it up and blow on it
and turn it upside down
and out they fall or fly or float as they may
as some...

...are now trees who fall to the ground and
whose roots reach down and down for continents around
and turn the tired soil black and moist and rich and new again,
growing fine fresh food to feed the world five times over for free.

...are now flocks of white-winged birds who fly as one breath
whose flapping winds cleanse the sky of all choking sins
whose songs seal up the ozone and turn the blue pure blue again.

...are now still selfish, stupid, scared little humans,
who bob up and down,
in the middle of the sea,
some who can’t swim, some who can.
who have to hold on, hold on, hold on,
to keep each other alive,
a raft made of humans, clinging to each other,
while I clap thunder and I zap lightning
to remind them of their ridiculous, presumptuous micro-size.
And I slap them down
and submerge them
and save them and slap and submerge and save them again and again and again,
holding their heads under almost too long each time,
to teach them respect.

And then I leave them to float and float and float and float
to be finally spat out on some distant shore,
like sour milk.
Not epic, not impressive, not crisply suited, hair parted on the left --
but bloated, sunburned, split-lipped, lily-livered, half-dead.
And they kiss the sand and each other
and they cry and they sigh and they sleep.

Oh, to be a Goddess and to get to wake some people up.