prairiegrass dreams

Across the Sandhills
wading into the untamed Niobrara
barebacked.. brown,  and beautiful

Within her Misty Mountain dreams
she is heading my way.
Ah, sweet lord God almighty,
look at her go..

Westbound,  she is best-found

    right there..  on the edge
    of these dreams of my own

Oh my lord..
look at that beautiful horsedream  go
Will I be able to survive her..

  I don't know
.  .  .  

You feel him..  don't you, sweet one..
my beautiful Snickers
on that Gordon, Nebraska hill--
his home,  his birthplace..

Until his beautiful spirit
one day..  finally found me

Striated and stoic
he is waiting for you..
To bring, you
the rest of the way home.

North now,  into Dakota
as you bleed  
with the Lakhóta
on a trail,  split

   between Pine Ridge..
   and Wounded Knee.

Feel your war-torn  Spirit
melt  in to them
(you will not fall)

As you ride this black-maned  dream
just a bit further North..
towards a man, named Paul

Within my own,  I can feel you both

Ah hell, babe..
I can feel you all

Along the priarielands--
rolling hills   previously
  roamed 
by wild buffalo.

Grouse
sage hens
prairie chickens
pheasant
hungarian partridge

     and now you--

You, in that pretty, flowing
summer dress- walking that
line.. between planted field
and wild prairiegrass

    and not a blade is broken.

Wind-- moving the grass and
nearly-ripened crops like
slow rolling waves 
        out on the sea.

Me.. watching you
      move.. just watching you-- move..
along that line between
beautifully-planted
and natural.. 

   and moving with understanding;

   flowing--
   ever-growing

   knowing.. sweetly knowing
   that there's a glowing
   from what you are showing--  me;

   Not a blade of grass or crop is
   ever harmed by your movements
      instead.. like me, they thrive--

      leaning into you 
      whenever you are near.
             .       .       .

      I am the grass
      the blade
      the crop-- ready for harvest
      the bison
      and the upland bird

      the forever wave hello
      of the tall grass of the prairie.

      And you are as much a
      part of it all
      as you are  of me.

      Like the native grass
      and the native Lakota
         that have  both
      always  known its ways..

      you were always meant to be here.

In Love,   I watered it
With care.. I adored it;

This  ten.. by ten,  patch..
just outside, the wire--
at the edge of my fence-line,

daily  I gave  without, tire

There's a country-side
of wild prairiegrass
that lives..  and thrives..
just  beyond my grasp

This grass..  it don't need me
in order to survive..

    And all this time
    I thought  that I was
    keeping it alive

Carefully-planted tufts--
windblown, as I sleep
uproot from this patch
that I prayed
the lord would keep..

And on some distant, hill
across these  natural
waves, of grain
Uprooted..  becomes, naturally
rooted, again--

    Forever,  naturally-watered
    by a Forever-natural,  rain

Maybe, now
I can finally  leave
a world  that has
never, truly needed me

Why  do I  still
so much,  believe?


I believe....

I believe.

Prairieland grass--
bent over towards the ground
by the dry, Fall wind
as the subtle warmth
  of a teasing Sun..

Submits itself to the
now impending Winter..
where grass and seed
sleep in dormancy
as the subzero wind
prepares the ground  
to receive  snow.. upon snow

upon snow.

..And there is this temptation
to draw feelings   and conclusions
from any one certain  part
   of the whole.

And those feelings and conclusions..
                             --they feel so very real

Because they were based upon  the real;
but only a part of the beautiful whole..
And though,  even  one part of the whole
is as real as every single  other part..

It is  in itself, incomplete.
Just as the bent-over prairiegrass
under the snow  is incomplete..


It is Spring now..  sweet, struggling Angel

    All things become new.