On The Prairie

The sage dries its purple as the whispers blow the tumbleweed to its respite.

The dry grasses whip their crackly, whipping fingers, beckoning the legged crawlers and the tiny wings.

Tell me the tales that my heart does not remember.

Whisper your warmth to the bending wild flowers.

Disclose the yearnings springing from around the rooted and fingerlings growing to the light.

Fill once again the dry bed, rocked and no longer cradled, winding through the carved out path that will always be.

And on your prairie, tumble and blow your whisper to me.

Raine Les 5/10/2008

Very nice. I bet it means something very cool