Go Picking Wildflowers
May 30, 2011 by
On a lazy, rainy Sunday
I go walking to where the mountain spins gold.
I pour my heart into the dirt as I exchange pieces of myself
for pieces of earth charm.
To take is to give, to take without giving is the ultimate imbalance.
The meadow larks flutter their song and wrap their wings about the softness of each other.
A moose spells sanctuary and tranquility with each drooping movement of its velvet roman nose.
Over in the thickness of the draw, pheasant roosters crow endlessly about their handsome tails.
Hawk eyes see all.
I carefully select my bouquet.
I bruise, bend and snap stalks as I build a petaled trophy for the windowsill at home.
The wind comes in waves.
The clouds sail fast into Wyoming.
I bed down in the tall grasses,
like a tawny deer,
and watch the rain come down the mountain.
April 2, 2011 by
The Great Basin is greening up.
Things are beginning to bloom.
Can you tell?
There’s nothing like a Rocky Mountain springtime,
as tempestuous as she is.
Happy weekending all you sweetie sweets!
March 26, 2011 by
For every girl who ever loved a horse.
xx
Plume
March 14, 2011 by
I go walking.
Plumbelina chases a low flying, red tailed hawk, it’s like watching merry shadow play; shrewd and hooded hunter eyes meet clumsy puppy body and zealous bounding. It’s just a pair of small animals dancing on a mountainside, but the clash of their fascinating contact makes the hills ring.
The woods seem filled with macro detail. The earth here is wet with snow melt and spring rains. There is the scent of mold, rejuvenation, the old death of autumn and the new breath of spring and all these scents are stewing together into a careful blend of nature swirl. I catch a glimpse of my own short life cycle, the broadness of my fleet existence here on earth. This temporary body. This eternal soul. I feel reckless, I hear the clattering of my hooves on the stone of old creek bed, I feel the stretch in my spine like the water seeking cottonwood. My senses drift in and out of the thick fog of spring, like ships in the night. Do you ever have that numbing feeling that comes with walking through steeped sensory richness in the forests, in the world, so thick you could cut it in two and then divide it once more?
[I can experience the same sensory overload when in urban settings but I usually wind up feeling stress and tension from all the sound and movement in a city. My urbanite friends seem to be able to connect with the energy of a cityscape and thrive on it like I do in the stillness and quiet of my world here…it’s fascinating that I can react so differently than them in such settings.]
In my forests, up the mountain, I feel a natural high saturating my spirit,
I feel my rough edges smoothed over.
There’s music in the push of the wind, the bowing grass, the drift of song birds on the wing.
I feel a part of it all. I feel it all. I feel it all.
The juniper trees are dressed in tidy lavender cosmic spice!
Pillows and billows of small berries beg to be gin.
I breathe deep as I walk.
The junipers are brooms, I’m swept clean
until my hollow ribs sing echoes into the quiet of the creek bed.
There’s a pale feathering of green growing up the mountainsides.
A sneaky creep of season change.
Impressions in the mud.
Herds on the move. The reclaiming of the high country.
I make my way, like we all do.
Slow and shambling, quick and rambling.
Breathing deep, pink in cheek.
I go for the sage.
I go to become sage.
I go for the windshine and the sunchime.
I go for nightfall and breezedrawl.
I go to muddy my feet, I go for the soulsweep.
I go for the heartsigh, for the spiritfly.