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Array
(
[sid] => 38003
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Memories of the Trail
[time] => 2004-03-09 18:02:07
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => Relaxing on a blossom of poppies I can smell rivers and woodsmoke, and scenes of the trail come flooding back. Children at play, mother at work this gentle pace was a choice made long ago. Fattening up on blueberries, after swimming naked in rivers that snake through shadowy mornings. I wish I had someone to share these memories. Buffalo grazing on a snowy-blue prairie, pheasants calling from the woods, raindrops falling on the wagon roof, comforting souvenirs from my childhood. At sundown I listened to old winds, primitive winds that I still don't understand. Eavesdropping on what the Earth was saying, a distant voice that only I could hear. Sundown glow tinted by desert dust shimmering right into the wagon, sunlit frost thawing on the prairie of an ancient, undisturbed hunting ground. A storyteller who needed a new pipe, a pipe made from river clay. a stargazer who told fortunes in the sand and who could shift the clouds. I recall Indian women gathering blue corn, and as a July night burned deep orange I silently asked the deer to forgive me. I wish I had someone to share these memories. [comments] => 2 [counter] => 194 [topic] => 49 [informant] => karl_wiggins [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => mystical )
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