I wish the ocean chose me.
Or the sea, the river, the pantheon in its destruction.
I wish they stretched long, structured, crumbling limbs and I saw the stars reflected by the waters, the ripples pooling beneath my teeth.
I wish the constellations chose me, the stars chose me, the wind, the Sun, Spring, chose me.
If I were to be chosen,
I want to be chosen by the earth, by the universe, by the melted snow, and the dying flowers, and the cascading brush of ice and deep, coldest waters.
I wish the tallest mountain chose me. Or the regime of stalks and wheat, of rice-steps, and hawks in mid-flight.
I wish the winds chose me. And the bright, luminous cascades of the ethereal, burgeoning of life, and sound, and music, chasing me, hounding me. The invisible, and the real.