It Winks at You

In the waving grass
Between the house
And the deer-worn,
Juniper-sagebrush
Rockslides and dry
Wash where the snow
Fell like communion
Wafers that melted
Into the true spring
Flesh of the god of another
Religion than the first
Ones practiced around here.
     But
I regress. Supposedly,
I'm meditating
On the illusion
Of any being but this
Interbeing winking
With every breeze
Brought from the far
Slopes of the small
World to wave
Bodhisattvas at
These tasseled heads
Of invasive grasses
Visited by those nearly
Unaltered, unalterable
Perfections reiterated
In the predatory patterns
Of the glittering, visiting,
Hover and whirr of recurring
Dragonfly wings.