Moon of White Ashes

Just like Indra, I am jealous, drunk on soma.  Asparas visions have distracted me, leading me astray, into the gray.  For I am the atmosphere, the tempest storm, the crackling thunder.  In the silver rain, I ride upon porcelain Airvata,  across the sacred snow capped mountains of India.  In the distance,  Vritra the flaming dragon purrs.  Like Buddha, I seek balance.  Like Vishnu, I am the ninth incarnation.  I levitate above the Bodhi trees.  I grew up as Siddhartha, one day in a magnificent dream.  Indiana Maples touched the velvety clouds, I awakened in the American Midwest transfixed in a forest.  I walked the streets of Chicago, noting the alignment of skyscrapers, the interconnectivity of the streets, the warmth of the January sun upon icy curbs.  It was the time of turning, the time of bitter cold, the moon of white ashes.