To go into the wild

My hands are warm stars.
My voice the song of river
having opened its lungs
under summer desert sky.

To go into the wild
is to go into my body,
to find my mossy glades
where hummingbirds trill,
to sink into feral juices
where the lotus grows,
tonguing deeply and rolling
her petaled eyes back
in my head.
​
If soul is sun, and breath, 
and the wordless,
this blood buzzes and gurgles
in, around, below, between
and as that moving ecstasy
of infinite regeneration.
Is there anything other than
touching?  and touching?
and touching?

As when drinking sweet water,
I tilt my whole being toward the Hand
that touches all touching,
that touches with Heart,
and with the ease of gravity,
I drop,
lift,
and open
into a vast space.