>trailing

>

Trailing

He told me once that wheat was patient. If I needed
help with waiting, I should come to this farm field. Between

these stalks of sway and pause, and the horizoned Little Belts,
white pelicans flash and fish the river breaks. I trail the red rock

bank on Jeep, a buckskin mare. We climb dried-up gulches, thread
through bursts of orange paintbrush and bitterroot blooms

of baby-girl-pink. The sky is lonely when it is solid blue- this is why
it follows you. He called it the tag-along shadow. Two strips

of jerky, half of a water canteen. Three ravines to the backside
of Crow Pond. Jeep chomps along the edges of the field, I slip

the red blanket from her sweaty back. The west wind hushes shhhh,
think softly. Gray green yucca, white cottoned milk pods tickle

my bare legs. The more earth touches you when you are young,
the stronger you stand when you are ancient. I circle the rings of teepee

rock, spread the blanket down. Many palms have smoothed
this woven fabric. Jeep swishes her tail once. She’s not my horse-

this is not my dream. He told me once he knew where ghosts come
from. I take in his breath when he exhales. He’s been here forever.

published by Free Fall Magazine in Calgary, Alberta : click here.

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About redmitten

author of Cracking Geodes Open, Making Good Use of August, and The Peppermint Bottle. poetry editor for IthacaLit and YB Poetry Journal. website: https://toomuchaugust.wordpress.com

7 responses to “>trailing

  1. Pat

    >I love this poem!Pat

  2. >Beautiful! I'll carry that rustling sound with me all day."serged"

  3. >"…The more earth touches you when you are young, the stronger you stand when you are ancient." – I guess I'm living forever."…I take in his breath when he exhales." – a tantric method of bonding.I've read this over and over. It holds such slow, careful woodsy wisdom. I love it.

  4. >aahhh…i feel as if i just went for a ride along the river…cheers.

  5. >pat- whatever it is this poem shares, i feel this so often in your artwork and poetry as well. especially when the fog flies in with the heron. i am sure, too, that you share such a connection with your son. where i visit the wheat fields, you visit the ocean vista. there he is. . .mike~ it seems to me that even before you read the poem, you were tuned to that rustling sound. i am so glad you like this poem.*ginspath*kass~ hey, we'll both be ancient together. this poem started out a long time ago, describing what it feels like to venture from the river's shore where i grew up, up through the ravines and gullies to where the landscape crests and then flattens out, offering a vista of forever. one year, due to a grass fire, the untouched remains of a teepee village became evident in this area. no one had touched the teepee rings in…..how ever long. i didn't tell anyone for a long time about it. eventually someone did find the teepee rings and scoured the site for arrowheads and such. (sigh).in writing the poem, i worried about the pacing. i wanted it to take its time and so it is good to hear you rode with the poem and made the entire journey.kerry~ so good to hear you rode the ride as well! i am envious, by the way, of your own river rides. and i invite everyone to click on kerry's name and go for a ride on her blog as well. actually, i think it was a walk-the-dogs post that had me realizing how you connect with the intangibles around you as well.

  6. >Sherry, I'll be on the "ginspath" around 4:30 this afternoon.The word that got me in: "liziner"

  7. >what i know, in studying minute stretches of history, is the wodkatrail forks into the ginspath. or else i have that backwards. or depends on which way you journey, which way you wear your hat. whether or not you are wearing jerseygirl clothing.indowle

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