last night

[creativesoul]

i dreamed of a time when the wind could speak in soft billows of changes to come
i was walking with the ones that when a question is being asked the answerspresent themselves as choices, and the possible outcomes are laid out like a well planned garden, if you plant over here, this will grow, these will flourish, if you plant this next to the other, one will die out"
sometimes asking questions to the wise and well traveled souls of this world and the next bring answers that are perhaps not the ones i would like to hear.I woke myself with a start as I was ready to break down and cry in my dream. I have never really been very good at vulnerability, intimacy or allowing the part of me that is tough and wild like a warrior on the plains in the early 1800 s, hear the sadness and feminine woman calling for love tenderness and attention, for the house, the home and the happiness, the comforts of this world, are sometimes detained for spiritual reasons. waiting for a wagon train to cross the great plains, the woman I am is tired , has been making medicine and tanning hides all day, the men are just coming in form the hunt. I desire to give and comfort them.the woman I am has met the woman waiting for the wagontrain, she has a scrunch on her nose as she exaomines my indian feet, my buckskin dress, the scents of the wild woods, where she is afraid to go. They meet but have not become accepting of each other. there is a slight strain, a bit of tension, and the eye contact. the look is long and deep as they drink of each other s souls. the connection is then made. Times are not easy, they must love and support each other. the delicate wagon train lady is barren , she is fragile and beautiful in a white mans sort of way. The indian woman is exotic and strong, her children are grown she is filled with wisdom and compassion. they are untied. They siliently agree to walk with one another. The wagon train arrives. The indian woman walks her painted pony along with the train after it is loaded , she mounts her horse and makes a sweet clicking sound with her mouth. she looks long and hard into the sky. she looks at the woman and smiles in a discreet and mild way.the sounds of the horses and the dust bring a taste into the mouth that speaks of thirst and hunger
for more than food and water can give.
with the merging of souls there is laways a question of surrvival. in these times, where food and water and a strange curious nature keep a person s wits in a delicate format. Choosing to be in a surreal skin for a tragic story, where love and determination are the glorified. where all things sacred hold hands and cry for answers.where the truth has no divison and is not becoming random or mundane.
the sun is behind , the sweat is buring
the woman tht I am watches out for this frail creature, no warrior, no man will ever harm her. she is kind, she is pale and thin and sometimes rather simple.She wants something different than the hand she has been dealt. I know that she needs me to watch out for her, because she does not know how to ask the questions, the ones that I find answers to when I listen carefully to the sounds of the wind, when the pipe smoke draws me to holy wakan places, where she is like a wild fower, I am like a buffalo robe, covering the people.
i know that we will walktogether, that I will lsten she will protect me form what this world has done to assimilate all of us into near extinction.